A Story of Wisconsin

I re-wrote the Story of Madrid. Feel free to continue the story, if you like.

Jim Palicka was going to be late from work again. Irene would likely have supper on the table. But she wouldn't even notice he was late. It was a blessing in their marriage. She hadn't even noticed when he lost all his front teeth. Such was life for an NFL defensive lineman in bustling Green Bay, Wisconsin.

Jim wished his MG Midget was roomier. It felt constricted in full pads. But he was glad to wear his helmet, because adoring fans would recognize it and make room for the hulking lineman as he wound his way through traffic.

Jim finally reached their home, which was on the eleventh floor of the Regency Tower and Bowling Alley. Jim parked on the street and pried himself from the car. Standing on the sidewalk, Jim looked up to the top of the immense building where the revolving bowling alley twirled. He shook his fist in the air and yelled, “You lucky bastards!,” then looked around to see if anyone had heard him. He frequently spoke his thoughts out loud.

Jim had become increasingly bitter over the shattered dream of being a professional bowler. “I wonder why I moved into a building with a bowling alley on top?” he said. “I guess just to torture myself.” He beat his fists on the sides of his helmeted head. When he found himself alone on the sidewalk, he made his way, with great difficulty, to the elevator. His cleated shoes combined with the icy sidewalk caused him to fall several times in that short distance.

Once he reached his floor, he stiff armed his way to their apartment, opened the door and flung his helmet on the peg nearby. He, rather stupidly, had once had a spindle near the door, but it was completely inadequate for holding garments, so he changed it to a peg all by himself. He then plopped himself at the dinner table and grabbed a fork and knife. Irene rolled her wobbly shopping cart through the swinging door of the kitchen and sat near her husband. Bowling was now the furthest thing from his mind—he was ready to eat.

He laughed to himself as he remembered the day he met her. She had been a bag-lady pushing her shopping cart full of empty cans and bits of string, across the parking lot of Lambeau Field. Even on an NFL player's salary, she had found some old habits impossible to break. Jim didn't care though, because even under the knit cap she wore, she was hot.

Jim said “You should've seen this quarterback I...,” just then Jim sensed that someone was at the door. He got up, opened it and in walked their neighbors, the Marceaus. They had been pretending to knock at the door. Jim had developed an intuition for their antics, as these neighbors came over at least twice a week. They were dressed in black leotards with white makeup on their faces. They all sat down at the table.

Jim looked up to see the Marceaus pretending to cut food and eat. Jim laughed heartily and slapped Mr. Marceau on the back, who then pretended to choke on imaginary food. A thump was heard by all but Irene, who busied herself with a sardine key she had found. The bright yellow helmet had fallen to the floor Jim cursed the failed peg while the Marceaus hopped up and mimed a tug-o-war.

Then, there was real knock at the door....