The Gift of Slime

                                The Gift of Slime 

It is 7:45 AM. I am in my car, headed for my daughter Ashley’s home 2.6 miles away. 
Each morning I drive grandson Johnny (age 10) to school. It’s my favorite way to start the day.

Today is my birthday. I’m 77. The year is 2017.

When I arrive at Ashley's, Johnny greets me at the door. “Here’s your birthday present,” he says, handing me a Tupperware container of what looks like Guacamole. I recognize it immediately as slime.

“Just what I wanted,” I tell a beaming Johnny  -  and it’s true.

If you haven’t heard of slime, you probably don’t hobnob with the pre-teen set and you’re also not employed at a store that sells Elmer’s glue - or Borax*.

Never heard of Borax either? OK, so you’re younger than 77.

What you also may not know is that “slime” is currently a national craze. According to USA Today, “Parents across the country are reporting a shortage of glue in stores and many are naming the simple, do-it-yourself "slime" as the culprit.”

During our ride to school Johnny gives me instructions on how to use my slime. “You can 'use it' for about a minute, then you should put it back for less than a minute, then you can 'use it' again.”

“What, exactly, do you mean when you say, use it?” I ask. 

“Just squeeze it in your hand for a while, move it around,” he says.

“Got it,” I say.

Kid crazes in my day (1950s) were a far cry from those today, 2017. No internet hype for one thing. I remember two such crazes at my school back in the last century – 1950s: water pistols and yo-yos. Water pistol mania was halted prematurely by the authorities (school principal). As for yo-yos, they likely faded on their own.

The internet obviously helps crazes along. In the case of slime there are myriad online broadcasts of new twists and turns such as varied ingredients, new colors and countless videos of nerdy - now world famous - children actually making the stuff.

Trust me, it’s riveting.

Johnny’s slime endeavors began a few weeks ago. He took things a step further when he and friends created a quasi- commercial enterprise to manufacture and market slime. They called the enterprise Cameroon Bank.  

The name Cameroon, dreamed up in the halls of Florham Park's Brooklake Elementary School, apparently comes from a fellow executive and 5^th grader named Cameron. I’m told that he doesn’t make slime like other officers, but that he authored the Cameroon company song and … well ...

“He’s the king,” John says, “He doesn’t have to make slime.” . 

The bank started with six charter members, all 5^th graders. Each - excepting Cameron - manufactures DIY slime at home from raw materials purchased by grandpas, parents and the like (no overhead). They market their product, neatly packaged globs of slime, almost exclusively at school. The first day John came home with over $10.

Needless to say, his parents were surprised. Aghast might be a better phrase.

Regardless, production hummed right along. Mornings before school, it was not unusual to see John stuffing varying amounts of folding money, along with containers of newly minted slime into his backpack.

Meanwhile, adults in the family were imploring John to return all profits. Not sure if that happened. Last I heard he claimed to have given it all to charity, but again, details are fuzzy. Charity? Does he even know one charity? He's ten.

Finally I was told that the school principal had banned slime sales. I’m assuming he banned in-school possession as well, but, honestly, you'd never know it from seeing the kitchen table most mornings: various sized containers filled with multi-colored pudding (slime), labeled with description and price. It seems that sales were still brisk - at least on the street. And I wouldn’t bet against on school grounds.

Meanwhile, along with my birthday container of green, beaded slime which, I’m told, retails for $5, I was officially appointed a Vice President of Cameroon Bank (after all I'm a major investor). I signed a contract, written on the back of my birthday card, and which the six officers of the Bank verified as binding (see below).

Needless to say, I'm honored.


* Borax: Prompted by the slime craze (it's a sometime ingredient), I searched for and actually bought some Borax recently. Finding a store that carried it was a challenge, but I finally located two boxes on a shelf at CVS. The internet told me that Borax would discourage ants from coming in under my front door. Borax was the ant equivalent of a have-a-heart trap for mice. They’d smell it and turn back. I sprinkled the Borax on the floor inside my door and it worked – I think. I say "I think" because I also laid down a batch of cinnamon so can’t be sure which one did the trick.

At the Orthopedic Office

It’s 9:30 AM. I’m at the local Orthopedic Center offices. 

I walk up to the counter to announce myself. The twenty-something receptionist looks up. “We have some paperwork for you to complete,” she says.

I reach for the clipboard, then turn around to find a seat. There are fifty plus chairs in the half a tennis court size waiting room. Approximately 30 patients waiting. But there are 18 doctors. So ... ratio is good.

I complete the forms, claiming zero pre-existing conditions. I admit to taking two medications, a statin (5 mg dose) and a baby aspirin. I don't mention sleep-aids and underestimate daily wine  (lie) claiming  that I drink just one glass of wine daily.

I give the forms back to the receptionist, return to my seat. I look around, noting a high percentage of senior souls sharing space with me this morning. The phrase “walking wounded” comes to mind, myself included.

I pick up a copy of the New Yorker.  I get through a page and a half of an article about fast food when I hear my name called.

“Edward?” 

I stand up.

“My name is Rachel,” says a young woman, “I’ll be leading you to your room.”

We go to Room 3. “Please remove your clothes and put on the hospital gown, open in the back,” says Rachel. She shuts the door and leaves.

Remove my clothes? It’s a shoulder injury. Rotator Cuff, I call it. I take off my shirt only. Slip into the hospital gown. I cannot come close to tying the back. Who designed these "gowns?" I sit in a chair and wait. I stare at the walls.

Solitary confinement comes to mind. Why didn’t I bring the magazine? I scan the room. No reading material. I stare some more at the wall. Nothing there. Minutes go by, five, ten ...  

Finally there’s a knock and the door opens. An athletic looking, fifty-ish man wearing a clean starched white coat with his name embroidered over the breast pocket enters.

“Did you bring a MRI CD?” he says.

“No,” I say

He gives me a frown. Not happy. 

Oh well. 

We exchange greetings.  "I have a report," I say, holding out the paper.

He reaches for it, looks at the MRI report. At least I remembered that. Actually I remembered the CD as well, but, yesterday, after a day long full house search, and total car search, I concluded that I’d taken it to the physical therapist and that they forgot to return it. I trucked over there. They denied they had it, so I more or less gave up.

After reading the report the Dr. says, “I’ll explain your situation. Let me go get a model.” 

He dashes out. 

He returns with the model, a plastic replica of the human shoulder. He holds it in front of me, pointing out the various tendons and bones with a pencil. He details my injury.

Next he goes over the surgery scenario: it's an outpatient procedure, 4 weeks in sling with no movement, no driving, 4 more weeks no activity. A high success rate, he says, then adds a but: moderate to severe pain.

“I’ll probably elect NOT,” I say.

 He seems OK with this, then asks, “Is there anything you currently have to do that you cannot do?”   

"Not really." 

“I elected NOT also,” he says. “Mine was an old college football injury. ”

“I separated my shoulder playing college football,” I offer.

“Not related,” he says, cutting off my about-to-begin, mildly embellished, college football story. 

He moves right along.

He demos three rehab exercises. Then says, “I do them every day. It takes 11 minutes.  I live with it. No poles when snow skiing. No water skiing at all. No pitching to the kids. I don’t throw any kind of ball. I once had an arm like a Major League  player. I could throw it a mile.”

“I was a pitcher in college,” I say. 

He doesn’t bite. Apparently he's not interested. Instead, he offers, “Do the exercises every day. If you want surgery I’ll be happy to do it.” His hand is on the door knob.

“Thank you so much for all of your advice,” I say feeling the need to flatter him, but he offers no reaction. 

“And thanks for letting me tell my football story,” I say.

“What’s that?” he says, halfway out the door.

“You told yours, so I got a segue to mine.”

“Yes,” he says. There is the tiniest of chuckles, which I see as an opportunity to probe further.

“Where did you go to college?”

I expect Notre Dame, because he looks very athletic. He says, "Johns Hopkins."

Huh? 

Did Johns Hopkins even have a football team? (Answer: Yes I looked it up later at home). Their level, in 1963, was a step below us (Lehigh), but every bit, in our league, just not near Notre Dame, or Big Ten. Some of Johns Hopkins’ opponents were also our (lesser) opponents. Regardless, he actually looks like a real footballer, a six footer, and appearing muscular under the white coat, unlike me, currently, at 76, a body shrunk to 5’ 6” from a once 5’ 8 ¾’’ (honest) in stocking feet at 18.    

“I went to Lehigh,” I say.

He nods. “Anything else I might do, get in touch,” he says. He closes the door.

I slip off the hospital gown, thinking to myself, We definitely would have trounced Johns Hopkins.

    

It's My Number

It's My Number

 

I am talking, by phone, with old friend from high school. We're both septuagenarians (that's Seven-Oh plus), so high school is what we'd call "way back."

I want to send him an email so I ask, "What's your email?"

"Bainie12@aol.com," he informs me, then adds, "It was my number."

I understand immediately. He was a quarterback. He played football. Twelve was his jersey number.

I correspond with several of my former football teammates. Please know that we were decidedly small time - but never mind - more than a few of us have put our numbers into our email address. As for me, my number is sprinkled throughout my many computer passwords. A lot of passwords require numbers and I get mine from old football jerseys.

Sometimes - more often than not - I make up passwords from ancient football plays. I think of this as quite clever. No joke.

For example: 108Lateral, 211Reverse, and LinePlunge17 (17 was my HS number when the "line plunge" was in fashion). Cool huh?

My personal favorite is: 17FB29IB19HB, which represents my three numbers, 17 as a fullback in high school, 29 as an "I" formation back in prep school and 19 when I was a halfback in college. So far, in the three or so years that I have used this password, it has never failed to bring a warm feeling to my chest each time I type it.

I'm not making this up. Yes, I know. Nuts.

Regardless, here's what happened the other day.

I was at the gym, post workout. I walked into the locker room and noticed a young man was using the locker right next to mine. As was the protocol, he apologized for choosing a locker so close.

"No problem," I offered.

"It was my number," he says, "twenty-two." He gave me a sheepish grin, then went on to describe his most recent athletic endeavor. "I just got back from Finland," he said.

"Really?" I said.

"I was playing professional hockey there. But they couldn't give me my number."

Hmmmm.

Of course I recognized the story, a thinly disguised variation of my own I played football story collection. I gave him my full attention.   

"They couldn't give me 22 in Finland. They said they only went up to 20. I could have either 2 or 20." 

"So which did you choose?" I asked.

As one who has told many a tall football tale, I obliged him with all due courtesy, plus I nodded and asked questions so he didn't have to resort to speed-talking in run-on sentences, a common necessity, with seniors speaking to disinterested parties.

Needless to say, I got an ear full, which brought on a feeling not unlike - my good deed for today.

FYI: He chose 20.

Walking out from the gym I chuckled to myself about the encounter and then got a bright idea. Next time I book a flight I'll reserve a seat in aisle 19. Then when I board, I'll stash my bags overhead, squeeze in, arrange the seat-belt, fiddle with my stuff (laptop, newspaper, neck cushion), settle in, get comfortable and exhale.  I'll look to my right (or left). I'll make eye contact.

"Ah ... aisle 19," I'll say. Eye to eye now. "It was my number." Blank stare. "Football number," I'll offer with a half smile, slightly apologetic.

Actually, I wouldn't expect any real interest.  

But hey … I think the point is not that others hear the story. The point is that I hear it, again