I fear God, and hope He has a sense of humor; otherwise, I'm toast. Literally...-John Gregory Parks
  THE JG PARKS BLOG
  • I'm A Blues Man
    • Blue Notes
    • Free Gift
    • What I Believe
  • Just Bloggin'
    • Politics >
      • JGP4America
      • Issues
      • One Minute Speeches
      • Quote This
      • Stories
      • The Other Me
  • News
  • Podcasts
  • Watch This
    • Life
    • College Days
  • God Tube
  • Contact

RIP: Century III Food Court

1/27/2019

0 Comments

 
Every couple of weeks I head to Century III Mall while my lady gets her nails and toes done. I always go to the food court to hang out and write. Today, I was struck by the emptiness. Perhaps it had something to do with the aches and pains I’ve been feeling as another birthday approaches.

Nostalgia is a good thing when you’re young remembering Christmases, concerts, and crazy things you did just out of high school. Nostalgia as you get older is rough. Friends you hung out with have moved, lost touch, or died. Events of the past, in some cases, seem like they happened to someone else, or you might have seen them in a movie.

Back in my younger days I’d sit in the food court for hours, observing the people, and happenings throughout the day. Some of my best comedy bits came from the research accomplished over a piece of pizza, a burger, a gyro, or maybe some Chinese, and a large Pepsi. Now the only activity is the occasional bird flying by, or the Silver Sneakers Club shuffling through the mall.

The question isn’t, “Where’d the time go?” It’s, “Where did we go?” I mean really, we may have a few aches and pains, a few scars from life, but basically, we are the same youthful folks we were decades ago. Do we act our age, because that’s what is expected? Do we rein our younger side in so society doesn’t think we’re a “crazy old coot,” or have we just surrendered to the battle that is life?

As I sit here I can remember all the various food choices, families, couples, buddies, and the lonely dude with the note pad and pen. If you worked in the mall you would eat lunch or dinner, then head to Wolfie’s or the Oyster House to eat and have some laughs. None of that exists anymore. The mall is easily 95% empty, and fading fast. It’s funny, the mall, just like us looks a little worn on the outside, but for the most part is structurally sound; and when you think about it is still pretty impressive.

Time marches on, and in time, I expect to see tumbleweeds rolling through this place, and eventually my visits to the once fertile mind field will end. It will be a sad day, but I’ll still smile as I rock on my porch watching my fish float around in the pond, as I remember my days at Century III Mall with Mark, Ken, Daryl, Evelyn, Lucene, Dean, Joe, Darlene, Walter, and Fast Eddie…

Time it was
And what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence
A time of confidences 
Long ago it must be

I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They’re all that’s left you.

​“Bookends”
Paul Simon

 
0 Comments

Cop Stories: Channeling Clouseau

1/27/2019

0 Comments

 
Picture

One of the things I liked about being the police, was that every day was different; everyday had the potential for adventure. One summer day I got the call that an ambulance needed assistance entering a house. I activated my lights and siren, and headed, full speed, into the unknown.

Upon my arrival, I saw that the ambulance crew had broken into the house to attempt save the elderly woman lying on the living room floor. Talk about bad breaks; she had already died from a heart attack hours before the EMTs were notified by a neighbor. All that was left to do was to clean up the area, secure the house, and notify the next of kin.

In this case, that was going to be the challenge.  It seems that the daughter had gone to Germany on a two-week vacation. While she was vacationing, her father had also succumbed to the wounds of life, and passed on. There were no other relatives in the area, and no other siblings to contact, she was an only child.  The neighbor told us that the daughter was to arrive home from her trip that evening.

Talk about a challenge. Well, since I was told that the daughter still lived at home, I at least knew her final destination, so to speak. The first I needed to do was find out what flight she was on, where, and when, she would be arriving.  I noticed the answer machine flashing, patted myself on the back, case closed. Obviously, the daughter was calling mom to let her know when to expect her home.

Of course, when I hit play she was speaking German. German? I did not panic, there was a deputy on the force that spoke German. I would simply call him, he’d translated, and I’d be out for coffee and donuts in less than half an hour. Little did I know that there are different types of German; much like there are different type of English. You know, there’s American English and the Queen’s English. There’s a whole different language in New York, then there is in Biloxi, Mississippi. Need I even mention Pittsburghese? I should think not yinz guyz.

So, plans A and B were shot. WWIC do? (What would Inspector Clouseau do?) It would seem the daughter would have left a note, ticket information, or a phone number for her parents, given that they were at death’s door. I begin systematically searching the living room, kitchen, and dining room looking for anything that might ease my pain. Nothing.

I headed upstairs; bathroom, clean. Guest room, clean with a 60” HDTV I took a five-minute break, to think. After watching a little NCIS, I continued my search. Small office, nothing; daughter’s bedroom, nothing, well nothing I will discuss here, it was a thorough search. Into the parent’s room. Jackpot!!

There, next to the bed a mahogany jewelry box. Where else would you stick important papers? I scurried around the king sized, poster bed, and skidded to a stop in front my pot of gold. I gently picked it up, looking for a door, drawer, or lid. Nothing. It was weird. It was smooth, impenetrable. I stared at my reflection in the dark brown mahogany, perplexed, and noticing I needed a shave. I began to poke, push and pull, looking for a secret latch to open the mysteries of the box. Nothing.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my feet dangling six inches above the floor, confounded by that silly box. After several minutes, I jumped to the floor and grabbed my tormentor, pulling ferociously at the top of the box. I pull that son of a gun off with my bare hands. Suddenly, the lid gave and black smoke engulfed the room. I began choking on thick smoky ash. What in the world?

There to my right, on the floor, under the bed, an envelope. Finally; I reached down, grasped and opened it, with soot covered hands. I was wearing the remains of Wolfgang Schmidt, who had passed into the Fatherland two weeks ago, and now had the company of his recently departed wife. Don’t they put people in urns anymore? Well, what’s an officer of the law to do? Right. Vacuum, and dump the bag into the box, super glue it back together, and sit outside and wait for the daughter to arrive, and give her the bad news.
​
Strange, when she pulled up several hours later, she told me she had a dream about two coffins, and thought of her parents. The both died during her two week stay in Germany. It was funny, she also dreamed her dad had put on some weight while she was gone. If she only knew… 
​
0 Comments

    John Gregory Parks

    It's my life, sad but true, but if it weren't for living, this life would be through. 

    Archives

    October 2020
    August 2019
    July 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.