I'm a Loser

 

I stood and introduced myself at my first Losers Anonymous meeting. 

“I’m John and I’m a loser.”

The group replied in unison “Hi John.”

The group leader said “Tell us what brings you here, John.”

I said “I think it all started when I was a boy playing with dolls while all the other boys were out playing baseball.”

The group leader interrupted me. “No, John, that’s not being a loser.  That’s perfectly normal. Try again.”

So I came up with another example. “I first realized I was a loser when bullies started calling me a loser.”

The group leader stopped me again and said “Wrong again John.  Kids who call you names are not bullies.  Think harder. Why are you really a loser?”

I dug deep and told the truth about why I’m a loser.  “I’m a loser because I have no real friends, so I have to get all my emotional support from anonymous strangers in secret meetings.”

The group leader was glad to hear that.  He said “Good job, John.  Now you understand.  Welcome to Losers Anonymous.”

DRAW YOUR GUN!

 

“Draw your gun!”

“No.  You draw yours first!”

Although we were facing off in the street for a shootout, we weren’t gunslingers by trade, so our marksmanship was rusty.  My opponent shot at me first, missed by a mile, and struck the blacksmith between the eyes.  I fired a couple wild ones, killing the bartender and a madam.  He fired, missed me again, and killed the teacher.  I fired a couple shots back, hitting a rancher and a gambler.  After a couple more bullets and a couple more bodies piled up, we took a break to reload and chat. 

He said, “You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”  I admitted he was right because the barn directly behind him didn’t have a single hole in it.   

I said, “You shoot like a girl.”  That was a lie.  Any girl in town could’ve shot us both dead by now. That’s how bad our aim was. 

Rested up and reloaded, we began firing away again.  We accidentally shot and killed a dozen drunks and gamblers through the saloon walls.  Schoolchildren dropped dead from our bullets in the schoolhouse door.  The entire choir perished in the pews.  When the smoke settled, we looked around and saw nothing but dead bodies.  Not a soul in town was left alive.

I said “I’d like to stop shooting now, if you don’t mind.”

He said “I agree. All this gunfire is leading nowhere.  Let’s do what we came here for.”

So we walked together into the bank. 

 

Make The Call

 

Make The Call

I should call my old friend Craig.  We had some great times together in that one summer so long ago.  We climbed trees, rode bikes and threw frisbees all summer long.  We had just one summer together before he moved away, but it was the best summer of my life.  Since then, he’s always been on my mind, and I always wanted to call him to find out what his life was like, but I was afraid he wouldn’t remember that summer as fondly as I did.  Maybe it hadn’t been such a big deal to him.  After all, it was just one summer.  So I didn’t call. 

Craig hung out at our house so much that my mother thought of him as second son.  Since then, she has asked me a number of times whatever happened to him.  She said I should call him, but I didn’t call. 

I searched online and found out Craig went to an elite school, had a great career in a big city, and travelled the world.  His social media posts showed countless friends and admirers. I was sure he wouldn’t remember me, just one kid from one summer. So I didn’t call.

More years passed, my curiosity grew, and I realized life was too short to wait any longer.  When I called, his wife answered the phone.  She instantly knew who I was because Craig talked so much about me.  He told her all about that great summer when we were best friends.  He followed me online and meant to call me, but he put it off because he didn’t know if I’d remember him.  She said he died just a week ago.    

I meant to call my mom and tell her the sad news.  She had been so fond of him.  But maybe she didn’t remember him like I did.  He was just one friend from one summer.  I figured she didn’t remember, so I didn’t call her.