Page 62 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
“Yup.”
“Pardon me,” an elderly man says on the stairs next to Atlas. “Are those seats taken? My wife and I’d love to sit down.”
“Oh, sure,” Atlas says as he scoots down the bleacher, sliding right next to me. “Do you need help? Want me to take your bag for you while you get settled?”
“That would be wonderful,” the shaky elderly man says as he hands Atlas what seems to be a small cooler. The man and his wife get settled, and then Atlas hands them their bag.
“You all set?” Atlas asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’m Atlas,” he says, introducing himself. “And this is Betty.”
What is happening?
Don’t introduce me.
The old man leans forward and waves. “Nice to meet you. I’m Frank, and this is my wife, Leslie. We drove up from Idaho Springs for the competition.”
“Oh, I love Idaho Springs,” Atlas says. “Beau Jo’s pizza is so good. That mountain pie with the honey to dip the crust in. So good.”
“Our favorite place to have a date,” Frank says. “Do you two go there often?”
“Oh, we’re not... we’re not together,” I say, waving my hand between Atlas and me.
“You’re not?” Frank asks with confusion. “Oh, I would have surely thought you were. Friends then.”
“Nah, more like enemies, Frank,” Atlas says with a gentle nudge of his shoulder. “Our friends had to leave, which left us here together, alone. What are the odds?”
Apparently, pretty high.
“Oh, what makes you enemies, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Atlas shifts his large body. “Oh, you know, just can’t seem to agree on the same things. Nothing too serious.”
Wait, what?
He’s not... he’s not going to throw me under the bus? Tell these strangers that I’m attempting to put together a rival farm next to his?
Given how I’ve interacted with him in the past, I would have assumed he would freely announce that to anyone. I’m surprised he didn’t bring flyers with him to hand out to the people around us, stating what’s going on. Asking for support. Maybe trying to rally some sort of backing on social media. Really getting the word out.
“Well, seems like you need to have more conversations.” Frank unzips his bag and hands us each a can of root beer. “Maybe this is something you can agree on.” He winks and then turns toward his wife, putting his arm around her and blocking us out.
“Pretty sure she prefers Pepsi,” Atlas says while rubbing his forehead.
“Huh?” Frank asks.
“Oh nothing. Thanks for the drink.”
Atlas then shifts in my direction with what little space we have and says, “I want to offer you this soda, but I fear what you might do with it. A two-liter bottle did damage, but a close-proximity chuck of an aluminum can very well might knock me out for good.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, taking the can. “I wouldn’t do that in public.”
“Ah, so you only hurl soft beverages on your porch.”
“Correct.” I fumble with opening the can, probably because of my nerves. And to my surprise, he hands me his open can before gently taking mine. “Umm... thanks.”
“No problem,” he says softly and then takes a sip. “Can’t remember the last time I had a root beer. I was always a cream soda kind of guy growing up.”
