DOMs Need Love Too!

CATNIP FOR THE ADOLESCENT MIND “Think I can get her to run away with me?” asked the panting, sweat-glazed, middle-aged player, as he picked up the ball from the floor of the racquetball court. “Tonight?” “What? Whatcha talkin’ about?” His equally sodden opponent flashed a momentary look of incredulity. “Lana … upstairs,” said Slats, a graying athlete, with a half grin. “I saw her coming into the club. When I came in … an hour ago. She put my insides in high gear!” “Run away? Like in, run away from home? With you?” Freddy snickered. “Yeah. Just the two of us,” he said between breaths. “Lana and me! Come back in a couple of years? Maybe yes, maybe no.” “We’re playing racquetball here, case ya didn’t notice, Goofus! Don’t change the subject.” “Lana and I will be leaving together. You won’t be jealous, will ya?” Slats asked. Freddy squinted. “Give up. Your mindless babble isn’t going to stop me from whompin’ your fat rear!” Slats totally ignored this uncaring response. Instead, he replied, “Think she’ll run away with me? You know, toss everything up … just take off?” The two players looked at each other and laughed heartily at the appealing fantasy. “Yeah. Sure. If not tonight, tomorrow. Fer sure.” Slats’ partner, Freddy Fuddpucker, issued a small guffaw. “Hey, Ego-head, I’m winning here, you know. You can quit trying to get my mind off the game,” he said, cackling for effect. Then, he cackled again. Without another word, the lithe Freddy served the next salvo, and furious court play resumed. “Dream on, you daydreamer, you.” Freddy muttered just loud enough so that Slats would hear. The racquetball hurtled toward the intersection of the two walls. Kevin Patrick Slattery (aka Slats) threw his early-fifties body a little late toward the wildly ricocheting ball, swinging his racquet with as much conviction as a man waving good-bye on a sinking cruise liner. The ball caromed off his racquet, skidded along the polished parquet floor, and took tiny bounces to a stop. Simultaneously, Slats’ body hit the floor with a thud. He lay there for a few moments, and then he lifted his large head and turned to his adversary, who happened to be his best friend. He did not say a word. “Noble effort,” said Freddy Fuddpucker, a few years Slats’ senior, panting deeply, as he rested his hands on his knees and looked down at Slats. “No need to maim yourself, old boy,” he gasped. “Just a game.” “In which, if I may remind you, dear ol’ pal o’mine, you usually come in second best!” Slats ragged on his twice-a-week nemesis. To the two rambunctious players, it was nothing short of a short-term mortal sin to lose to the other. “Not today, old mate. Your mind’s upstairs with Lana. You wanna jump into her jumpsuit.” Reaching down, Freddy offered Slats his hand and yanked him to his feet. “Every year, the bod grows older,” cautioned Freddy. “But the mind can remain immature for a lifetime,” Slats shot back, whacking his friend across the buttocks with his racquet. “You’re proof in living color!” As they entered the showers at the Courthouse Racquetball Club, Freddy and Slats paid no attention to the other, mostly younger, men milling about. These others looked almost studious, as if shouldering guilt about not being behind a desk and fulfilling roles as aspiring captains of industry. Freddy redirected the water from his showerhead into Slat’s face. “Here’s mud in your eye!” “Don’t make me come over there,” Slats warned in a mock threatening tone. “You might find this bar of soap very tasty.” “Only Lifebuoy accepted,” Freddy joshed. The younger men shot brief, uneasy glances at them and then continued dressing, wiping their bodies, or waiting to enter the showers. They were not about to interrupt two men, who were hovering around the half-century mark and who were howling, laughing, and splattering each other with abandon. Slats and Freddy were cut from the same bolt of cloth. They were healthy, vigorous old boys who loved the flag, ma’s apple pie, and life in general. Slats was about six-feet tall, with a larger frame. Although his once bushy head of red hair was turning grey, his eyebrows remained a dark rust color. Freddy was slightly shorter and thinner. His hair had receded and was almost white. They were competitive by nature and loved good times; both got along with others and enjoyed success in their business worlds. Slats owned and ran his own advertising company, and Freddy owned and operated a real estate brokerage firm. Yet, there were profound differences in their practices and their personalities. Slats was contemplative, calm, steady, and predictable. Yet, he listened to others and could be flexible. Freddy was more impulsive and flippant; he tended to overdo things and was the noisier, jauntier of the two. He was regarded as a free spirit and risk taker. There also were similarities. Both talked for a living. Each was a wordsmith in a verbal world. Basically, both were peddlers, salesmen who lived on commission. The year was 1995. The pair resided in the upstate New York town of Old Britain. Old Britain was an early American settlement. Its location is close to the New York–Connecticut state line, today a couple of hours drive north of New York City. With the help of Hudson River traffic and the railroads, it became a tiny industrial berg. Then, year by year, it had slowly become overrun by well-off, modern-day Big Apple commuters. The town of Old Britain emulated a sleepy hollow of highly ornamental Victorian commercial buildings, with elaborate windows and doorframes, projections, and objects that crowned buildings and arches. Many retail stores were formerly residences. Some former homes even had widow’s walks atop the roofs, attesting to a day when the farmer’s wife could look for her husband laboring in the field. The buildings were narrow structures, with lovely patterned brick designs. Here and there could be found the bleak ugliness of dark, unkempt, and vacant buildings whose business operations had been put to death by the automobile, the shopping center, the expressway, and the modern store with convenient free parking, improved security, larger selections of merchandise, and the buying power of a national chain of stores. “Bigger is better” prevailed as Mom and Pop stores dwindled down to a precious few. Time, consumer acceptance, and technology had inflicted obsolescence on these painted and ornate old ladies, once so sweetly personable and unique. Fortunately, many had transformed into boutiques, specializing in one or another tiny niche of commercial trade.