I Was Minding My Own Business, I Swear.

It seems actually being in the hospital gives me a) more material and b) more time to post. Unfortunately it also seems to provide opportunities to write about things other than Molly. That doesn’t make the site less about Molly, it just makes it more about what’s going on in our lives as a result of Molly.

This post is certainly no epiphany. It’s not even that interesting. I am having a hard time convincing myself to even publish it.

A story for you: I am walking into the cafeteria and I end up behind an employee in all black, head-to-toe. He is a food service employee; they all dress like that. I guess in an effort to support the home team, and break up the black floor-to-ceiling, he put an Eagles sticker on the back of his hat. I wondered silently if I could unpeel it without him knowing. But I was six feet behind him.

Now I am standing in line waiting for my sandwich. I hear, “nice hat, dude.” I am rocking the white, flex-fit, mesh-back sideline cap from this season. It is a nice hat, but I am not foolish enough to believe that the owner of this voice is genuine. I nod slowly as I look up and see Johnny Cash spinning his hat around to display his sticker.

“Yeah thanks. I saw that on the way in and thought about pulling it off.” He replies with something about wanting to see me try it or some such thing, and then walks away muttering something that ended with, “Eli, wee-lie.” I wish I could tell you what he said, but he appeared to be speaking with this bizarre accent that is indigenous to a 40-mile radius around Pattison and Broad.

Then a little while later I am waiting for an elevator on Molly’s floor. It was taking forever because, as I found out later, there was an incident on the seventh floor that left us with one shut down elevator, one stuck elevator, and one operable elevator. Apparently a woman on the seventh floor was in an altercation with an employee that resulted in the dispatch of security. By the time they arrived the husband was involved as well. They tackled him. She came to his aid. They both got cuffed. Eight security guards dragged them into an elevator; they fought in the elevator – eventually stopping it between floors. Elevators one and three shut down automatically. Then they got one working again. But I literally stood there for eight minutes waiting for an elevator. This was before I knew the story.

In the waiting area behind where I am standing there is a twelve year old kid. I hear him start going “oh my god, oh no, oh no.” His parents are naturally concerned. “That guy is a Giants fan,” he says. “That guy has a Giants hat on and I have a Cowboys hat on and Giants fans hate Cowboys fans.” I am not the only one standing there. I am sure I am not the only one hearing this. He keeps going. “Oh my god I can’t believe there is a Giants fan.” Strange. Like he’d actually never seen a Giants fan before.

The elevator finally arrives and as the doors open I turn to offer the young man some words of wisdom. I tell him, “Cowboys fans hate Giants fans. Giants fans don’t pay any attention to Cowboys fans because we’re all too busy hating Eagles fans.” I slide into the crowded elevator, next to a big food cart and from the other side all I can hear is somebody mumbling in a strange accent something about injuries and “being all done.”

Freakin’ Johnny Cash.

Freakin’ karma.

Freakin’ Eagles fans.