Somewhere in Georgia. The hotel lobby is festooned with Christmas decor and holly, and the place smells like a cross between a cinnamon bun and a bottle of industrial ammonia.
My wife and I are checking out of our room. We are in travel mode. We need to get on the road. Need to keep moving. Need to put miles behind us.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
But right now my wife apparently has other plans. Because she is standing at the front desk having an in-depth conversation with the hotel receptionist. They are laughing and carrying on while I stand around waiting like a wart.
In exactly one hour and forty-five minutes the Iron Bowl will be on television, the century’s biggest rivalry football game, and I’m going to miss it because my wife is having a heartfelt conversation with a total stranger, talking about—I am not joking—cute baby clothes.
I wander toward the lobby’s TV which is blaring with gameday sports commentary. I watch and I wait for my bride.
After thirty seconds of watching the football pundits, I realize something: The intelligence of the sports commentators has really gone downhill in recent years.
COMMENTATOR: “…Bob, we know for certain that whoever scores the most touchdowns in today’s matchup will absolutely, without a doubt, become, ultimately, the winner of today’s game…”
I don’t want to be exposed to this.
But because I’m stuck here, I sit on the lobby sofa to watch.
Seated on the couch beside me is a little girl with curly blond hair. She is watching TV, too.
“Hi,” I say. “Is this seat taken?”
She says nothing at first. She only looks at me briefly, then back at the television. Shy.
“Hi,” she chirps.
She is done talking now.
“Did you have a happy Thanksgiving?” I ask because I have the obnoxious gift of gab.
She turns to look at me. I can see a large scar on the side of her head, shaped like a half moon. Her hair does not grow on one side of her scalp. Her face bears another sizable scar.
“It was good,” says the girl of a million words.
This is as far as I get in our conversation. So we watch the talking heads on TV in silence.
THE TV: “…Bob—can I call you Bob?—the most important thing about today’s game, Bob, about any game, really, about any sport in the world, Bob, is that you don’t lose…”
After a few minutes I can tell she’s not thrilled about the football-themed broadcast, so I ask the obvious and most pressing question.
“Do you want me to change the channel?”
She stares at me, then back to the eloquent commentators. She’s weighing her options.
“Sure,” says the girl.
So I start flipping channels.
Bye, bye, football.
The TV zips through a stream of truly godawful daytime television shows.
You have the perky people on home shopping networks, who claim your life will be changed by purchasing a green vase shaped like Mount Rushmore.
You have the twenty-four-hour news channels informing you that the world is about to implode.
And there are the home-decorating channels, where TV hosts act clinically insane with joy whenever someone uses the word “shiplap.”
Finally I land on a cartoon depicting a talking sponge.
“How’s this?” I ask.
“Good.”
“You sure? I can keep scrolling channels if you want.”
“No. Spongebob’s cool.”
“You like Spongebob?”
Shrug.
“You sure talk a lot,” I say.
Shrug number two. No smile.
While the TV plays, I find myself staring at the girl, wondering what she has endured, and where those scars come from. Occasionally she laughs at Spongebob. It’s a private laugh, but it’s an honest one. An open laugh. I wish I could laugh like that.
I’m wondering how a small child can so easily laugh when she has obviously been through so much. Something tells me this child is made of iron—this is just a guess, mind you, but I’d bet the state of Georgia on it.
When the girl’s mother arrives she says, “Are you ready, Raya? We have a long drive today.”
Raya.
The girl zips up her jacket. She looks at me, and I feel lucky to be the recipient of such a look. Her green eyes are like little pieces of opal.
I wave. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Thanks for the great conversation,” I say. “I never got a word in edgewise.”
She actually smiles at this. I count this as a major personal victory.
Raya uses a pair of lightweight forearm crutches to muscle herself off the sofa. It’s difficult for her, she almost falls twice, but she does it.
Her mother places a stocking cap over her yellow curls, and mittens on her little hands. In a few moments the happy girl is gone, and I’ve forgotten all about football. I’m too busy thinking about her.
When my wife finishes her ultra-marathon conversation, she finds me slumped on the lobby sofa, openly watching “Spongebob Squarepants.”
“Guess what,” my wife says, “I made a new friend today.”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Commentary: The Gift of Gab
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
Somewhere in Georgia. The hotel lobby is festooned with Christmas decor and holly, and the place smells like a cross between a cinnamon bun and a bottle of industrial ammonia.
My wife and I are checking out of our room. We are in travel mode. We need to get on the road. Need to keep moving. Need to put miles behind us.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
But right now my wife apparently has other plans. Because she is standing at the front desk having an in-depth conversation with the hotel receptionist. They are laughing and carrying on while I stand around waiting like a wart.
In exactly one hour and forty-five minutes the Iron Bowl will be on television, the century’s biggest rivalry football game, and I’m going to miss it because my wife is having a heartfelt conversation with a total stranger, talking about—I am not joking—cute baby clothes.
I wander toward the lobby’s TV which is blaring with gameday sports commentary. I watch and I wait for my bride.
After thirty seconds of watching the football pundits, I realize something: The intelligence of the sports commentators has really gone downhill in recent years.
COMMENTATOR: “…Bob, we know for certain that whoever scores the most touchdowns in today’s matchup will absolutely, without a doubt, become, ultimately, the winner of today’s game…”
I don’t want to be exposed to this.
But because I’m stuck here, I sit on the lobby sofa to watch.
Seated on the couch beside me is a little girl with curly blond hair. She is watching TV, too.
“Hi,” I say. “Is this seat taken?”
She says nothing at first. She only looks at me briefly, then back at the television. Shy.
“Hi,” she chirps.
She is done talking now.
“Did you have a happy Thanksgiving?” I ask because I have the obnoxious gift of gab.
She turns to look at me. I can see a large scar on the side of her head, shaped like a half moon. Her hair does not grow on one side of her scalp. Her face bears another sizable scar.
“It was good,” says the girl of a million words.
This is as far as I get in our conversation. So we watch the talking heads on TV in silence.
THE TV: “…Bob—can I call you Bob?—the most important thing about today’s game, Bob, about any game, really, about any sport in the world, Bob, is that you don’t lose…”
After a few minutes I can tell she’s not thrilled about the football-themed broadcast, so I ask the obvious and most pressing question.
“Do you want me to change the channel?”
She stares at me, then back to the eloquent commentators. She’s weighing her options.
“Sure,” says the girl.
So I start flipping channels.
Bye, bye, football.
The TV zips through a stream of truly godawful daytime television shows.
You have the perky people on home shopping networks, who claim your life will be changed by purchasing a green vase shaped like Mount Rushmore.
You have the twenty-four-hour news channels informing you that the world is about to implode.
And there are the home-decorating channels, where TV hosts act clinically insane with joy whenever someone uses the word “shiplap.”
Finally I land on a cartoon depicting a talking sponge.
“How’s this?” I ask.
“Good.”
“You sure? I can keep scrolling channels if you want.”
“No. Spongebob’s cool.”
“You like Spongebob?”
Shrug.
“You sure talk a lot,” I say.
Shrug number two. No smile.
While the TV plays, I find myself staring at the girl, wondering what she has endured, and where those scars come from. Occasionally she laughs at Spongebob. It’s a private laugh, but it’s an honest one. An open laugh. I wish I could laugh like that.
I’m wondering how a small child can so easily laugh when she has obviously been through so much. Something tells me this child is made of iron—this is just a guess, mind you, but I’d bet the state of Georgia on it.
When the girl’s mother arrives she says, “Are you ready, Raya? We have a long drive today.”
Raya.
The girl zips up her jacket. She looks at me, and I feel lucky to be the recipient of such a look. Her green eyes are like little pieces of opal.
I wave. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Thanks for the great conversation,” I say. “I never got a word in edgewise.”
She actually smiles at this. I count this as a major personal victory.
Raya uses a pair of lightweight forearm crutches to muscle herself off the sofa. It’s difficult for her, she almost falls twice, but she does it.
Her mother places a stocking cap over her yellow curls, and mittens on her little hands. In a few moments the happy girl is gone, and I’ve forgotten all about football. I’m too busy thinking about her.
When my wife finishes her ultra-marathon conversation, she finds me slumped on the lobby sofa, openly watching “Spongebob Squarepants.”
“Guess what,” my wife says, “I made a new friend today.”
“Guess what,” I say. “So did I.”