This story was lucky enough to be part of BooTown’s Grown Up Storytime Series.

The other day I was going through some ski clothes and stumbled upon a black beanie with a skull and cross bones on it. It reminded me that sometimes gifts are very simple.

A couple of years ago my family decided to take a ski trip on vacation. At that time in my life I had still never seen snow. Maybe a couple of flurries here and there but not real snow. The thought of going skiing was amazing. Seeing real snow. Hanging out in a lodge. All things new to me. However no one in my family had ski clothes so my Grandma Peggy bought everyone clothes. She just so happened to buy me a black beanie with a skull and cross bones on it. A little ominous for a first time skier, but I didn’t mind it so much.

This vacation also happened in a time in my life wear I was in the process of growing a beard…or the best beard I could grow. (Sometimes as an actor you don’t control your face.) I had a thick, scraggly, nasty looking beard. And this is where the bad exposition ends and the true story begins.

After a tough half-day of skiing the intense “greens” of Deer Park, I decided that it was lunch. I did my best of not looking like a fool and took my skis off and put the on the rack with my poles. I proceeded to pretend I knew how to walk in ski boots, a talent that I still don’t know. I went to the very luxurious locker room and looked around to make sure no one was noticing that I didn’t know how to walk.

I sat on the bench for a moment before opening my locker. My hands were frozen and my clothes were soaked. Just a few moments before I was sliding down one of the slopes for about fifty yards. Learning how to ski could be very humiliating. I had the feeling that my legs were in a tremendous amount of pain but they were frozen and I couldn’t be sure. I might be horribly injured.  I finally decided to man up and pull my PB & J out of the locker. I quickly decided that it wasn’t worth the effort to eat this beautiful sandwich in the lodge, I was going to eat it right here. That way I wouldn’t have to walk any more than I had to.

As I was finishing my sandwich I noticed a small moppy headed child sitting next to me smiling. He was grinning from ear to ear. I didn’t quite know how to take this seeing that the whole time I’ve been in the locker room I’ve been scowling in pain. The kid looked at me and said Hi. Hey, I say back. He just continues to smile at me. Maybe he wants a sandwich, I don’t know.

Hey buddy, you want a sandwich? I have an extra, I say to him.  The kid just sort of giggles a bit. I start looking around the room for a parent for this little odd ball. There’s got to be a parent somewhere responsible for this kid who’s trying to talk to me while I’m in pain. I see adults, but no one who seems to be paying attention. I like your hat, the kid says. I beginning to think this kid’s making fun of me,  but he seems too sincere. Thanks, I like to wear pictures of heads on my head, I say. The kid seems to find this humorous and chuckles.

Finally a thirtysomething year old man turns around and says, I’m sorry, I hope he isn’t bothering you. No, no, I say to the man. I look back down to realize that the kid is sitting right next to me flush up against my leg. I’m not sure how to take that and I don’t want to anger the father so I stand up and pretend to grab something out of my locker. The kid stands up on the bench and his smile seems to be bigger and brighter than ever and his eyes are fixed on me. Are you a pirate? the kid asks.

Now I didn’t know how to take this because I’m not accustomed to lying to innocent children. I look at the little blond kid, he’s just beaming with happiness. Then I notice the man. His eyes are huge. He’s looking at me with desperation and he very slowly nods his head yes. So I look the kid dead in the eye and I say, Yup. I’m a pirate. The little kid then jumps off the bench and spins around and says, I knew it! He then goes to the other side of the locker room screaming, Dean, Dean, I found one! I found one!

The man looks at me with a weak smile and says, That’s what he wants for Christmas. He wanted to meet a pirate. And before I could ask, the kid and Dean, who was smaller and blonder than the first kid, were right beside me. Dean asked if I was a pirate and I said yeah. They asked me my name and I said Paul (I thought I should be somewhat honest).  I looked at the man and said, Well, I should be going now, I have to catch up with my crew. The man nodded and began to tell the kids that I had to go and say bye. Bye Mr. Pirate Paul, the said in almost unison. Bye, I said, be good now. The man mouthed the words Thank you so much. And I turned around and started to walk away. All I could hear as I was leaving was pure innocence and excitement of the two kids saying, It was a real one! You said I couldn’t find one! It really happened! As I was trying my hardest not to limp too badly until I was out of sight.

I hate responsibilities, I think to myself as I realize I’m opening a brown pack of instant oatmeal. “When did I get here?” I mumble to myself as I squint around trying to remember walking out of my room to the kitchen. I must be really tired. I’m placing the bowl of water and oats into the microwave and begin to make my way back to my room. I look down and notice that I’m wearing flip-flops. “What?” While my brain was smart enough in this sleepy auto-pilot to make oatmeal for breakfast, it obviously didn’t put much effort into choice of footwear. Flip-flops, really? When was the last time I even wore flip-flops? I laugh a little to myself just imagining a zombie like version of myself digging through my closet for flip-flops to wear as house shoes. I’ve made it through the first stage of my morning.

I’m becoming more and more conscious and starting to snap out of my sleepy state. I put on a pair of basketball shorts and tennis shoes, throw on the cleanest t-shirt that I have and begin to leave my room when I remember I’m wearing flip-flops. No need to wear embarrassment any longer. I put on socks and tennis shoes and go to get my oatmeal. The oatmeal is warming and delicious, not a bad breakfast for a minute and a half in a microwave. I scarf down my instant breakfast and run to the restroom and grab a toothbrush. Quickly I go to work, I’m running out of time. I catch my reflection in the mirror and I see myself staring back. This isn’t good. I have horrible bags under my eyes, my hair’s a mess and I’m in need of a shave. I’ll have to shave later because I’m already running late. As I’m staring I begin making a list, like I do every morning, of things that are wrong with me. And like every morning by the time I’m done brushing my teeth I come to the conclusion that I don’t really care. I’ll work out more and eat better. Yup, that’s what I’ll do. I grab my gym bag that I use as a man purse and run out of the door.

In my car I turn on the local am sports radio station and turn it down to a low hum. Trying not to get caught be any lights, I’m becoming more coherent. I begin thinking about how much I hate brushing my teeth almost immediately after eating. What’s the point of eating something with a flavor I like? It’s beginning to piss me off, I paid money for that oatmeal and then I erased it. I could wake up earlier or…not brush my teeth. Neither appeal to me so I guess I’m just stuck with erasing flavor in the mornings. I finally arrive to the school that I work at and fight to find a parking space. They should just give me a reserved parking space, I grumble as my walk to school becomes a slight jog. I get to the office right on time and begin to fill out my paper work. “Who are you today?” the secretary that eerily resembles my girlfriend’s sister asks. “Coach Von Dolen.” I reply. “The shorts gave you away,” she says. “Oh yeah?” I throw in trying to let her know nicely I don’t have time for small talk. “I thought you only subbed for the lower school teachers,” she says waiting for an answer. “No, I pretty much sub for whoever asks me. I actually coach a lot; I’m the only man on the sub list.” “That’s why you wear shorts a lot. I just thought you came here to work out,” she says. Is she flirting with me, I think to myself. I’m horrible at knowing when someone is flirting with me. And I have a girlfriend who is way out of my league that I love. I’d be a fool to mess up the great relationship that I’m in. I don’t know what to say. I thought about, ‘Hey, my girlfriend and I work out all the time.’ But you don’t want to get the awkward “I’m not flirting with you” look. The phone rings and I’m saved. The receptionist picks up the receiver and we exchange a wave.

I’m fully awake now and stress has started to kick in. I’m not all too sure of what is expected out of me today. I pass by a mirror and see a frantic man with barely combed hair power walking with all his might. Mrs. Amanda, who oversees the substitute teachers, gives me a nod as I walk into the lower school building, “Right on time.” I weakly smile and in a last attempt to be presentable smooth down my hair as I’m walking to the class where I have to pick up the kids for P.E. When I get there the teacher of the class, 5^th grade English, smiles at me and says, “Nice jacket.” Referring to the Members Only jacket I had in my car and put since it was a little chilly. “Thanks,” I look down and laugh not knowing to be proud or embarrassed.  In the class the children are all whispering and smiling in excitement. “Put your books up class. Coach Von is out, so today you have Coach Paul.” That didn’t seem like the end of the sentence but at the mention of my name children began to clap wildly and cheer. There was hooting and chanting of my name. And for the first time in this horrible morning I felt good. I couldn’t help but to smile. The 5^th grade teacher looked at me and said “Must be nice to be loved.” Then she pulled out a bell and ringed it. The children fell quiet but they were all beaming with smiles. One of the kids softly said “We like Coach Paul.” I smiled and said, “Let’s go class.” They stood up and began to yell again. And with as much feign disapproval I could muster I shushed them.

To be honest I was worried that I would show up and I would be sitting on a panel next to people that were celebrities or at least somewhat deserved a “Celebrity Judge” title. My girlfriend asked if I would sit on the panel and of course I said yes because how many chances would I actually have be able to judge a senior talent show. I was relieved when I arrived to see that the other “celebrities” were like myself. We were all asked by family members and were happy that we were not sitting next to Carl Weathers, Doug  Flutie or Lance Bass.

The Community Room that the talent show took place in was packed with wrinkly faces. There was a buzz in the room. These little old ladies and old men were chatting it up with each other, eating cookies and drinking their coffee. Chairs were brought in from outside to accommodate the people that were still pouring in trying to find a seat. I imagine that this event was greatly looked forward to by the residents of this community. I took my seat on the panel and was a little excited myself to see what could even happen at a senior talent show.

When the judges were announced we were happy that who invited and our relationship to them was announced, not what we do. Then the first act was announced by the M.C. “And now Frank will be singing a song!” There was applause and a frail little old man began to make his way to the makeshift stage. He moved very slowly and it looked as if he needed a cane or a walker. Frank looked very serious. He seemed very concentrated on his steps and everyone of them was carefully calculated. The little old man was wearing a pair of Wranglers, a very old pair of brown cowboy boots, a huge gold belt buckle, a cowboy hat and a short black cowboy tie.  I already thought Frank should win, I mean he brought a costume. This guy was in it to win it.

Frank finally made it to the stage and grabbed the mic. His hands trembled terribly as he was attempting to hold the microphone to his face. Frank looked very tired, his eyes were bloodshot red. He cleared his throat and smiled big as he scanned the room. “When I was a young man I lived in Oklahoma,” Frank smiled and nodded to the pianist.

There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow,

There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow

The judge to the right of me handed me a slip of paper. Great, I thought, we’re going to hand notes to each other, mature. I unfolded the paper and it said: His wife died yesterday. I looked up from the note towards the other two judges who looked back at me with tears beginning to fill their eyes nodding to me. I looked at the M.C. who was clutching her heart and pursing her lips to keep from crying. I glanced at the audience, a sea of the elderly, all grinning and tearful watching their friend sing. Then I looked at Frank as he hit the chorus.

Oh, what a beautiful morning,

Oh, what a beautiful day,

I’ve got a wonderful feeling,

Everything’s going my way.

Frank was a champ. He was working the audience with his smile and nods, he delivered the joke in the song perfectly, he was simply brilliant. He completely meant what he was singing and was selling his song with a smile that told you he meant it and old weary eyes of wisdom.

All the sounds of the earth are like music,

All the sounds of the earth are like music,

The breeze is so busy it don’t miss a tree,

And an ol’ weepin’ willer is laughin’ at me.

Frank laughed as he went back into the chorus for the last time and people sang and hummed along. The song ended with uproarious applause. And Frank laughed and tipped his hat, “I’m 95 years old and I don’t sing like I used to. Thank you!”

Later after the show I shook his hand and congratulated him. Frank looked at me and with a wink said that he was losing his voice but thought he did a good job anyway. I agreed with him and told him thank you for the performance and to have a good evening. Frank smiled back and said that he would.