Interstate 195 West leads straight to Rustler Steak House.
My tee ball team is sponsored by Gigi Electrolysis and Cosmetics.
The day they install central air conditioning in our house there is a sunshower.
I bring an assortment of ShopRite sodas to Wildwood for vacation, as well as a few Faygo Redpops.
Flakes of crumbly black paper fall in our backyard, airborne remnants of a burning Kmart Warehouse in Falls Township, Pa.
The dentist reaches into my mouth, with his fingers pulls out a tooth that was sort of loose. “No charge, ha ha,” he says.
A kid at the arcade proves he can make it to the Pie Factory level of Donkey Kong and he rules that place.
Get new sneakers for the first trip to Walt Disney world. Canvas Nike high tops, Herman’s, Oxford Valley Mall, $14.77. They are as stylish as the price suggests.
Guy at Veterans Park is not playing too well in the tennis court next to where I’m playing with a friend. “Where did my serve go?” he cries. “Did you look under the bench?” I ask. “Hey buddy, how about I stick this racket up your ass,” he says.
Neighbors have a beagle named Duchess. In my mind it is spelled “Dutchess.” Of course it could be, if she were named after the county in New York and not after a woman of nobility.
I’m stung by a wasp three times. Never stung before that summer, never stung since.
Chasing my sister around the first floor of our house one day, around and around, faster and faster. Finally don’t turn a corner right, catch the wrought iron railing handle in the small of my back. “Am I bleeding? Am I bleeding?” I scream. I’m not.
My parents go to San Francisco for a short trip, we stay with my godfather and his wife. I eat so many cherry vanilla Life Saver lollipops we have to go to the store for more.
Do my neighbor’s paper route one weekend when he’s away. Start putting Sunday Trenton Times together at 4:30 a.m., finish route after noon, listening to U2’s The Joshua Tree on my walkman.
Scoliosis day instead of gym class, girl I don’t know drops a barrette under bleachers. Bored, I go under bleachers to find it, other students notice me, start razzing me, grabbing my hair, a ruckus starts. Aide sends me to vice principal, who suspends me three days. “I have to back the staff,” he says. My irate parents call a board member who gets it overturned, but the incident makes me physically ill, and I miss next three days anyway.
First Winn-Dixie. Fort Myers Beach, Fla., 1988. They have lemonade-flavored Gatorade there, and honey-roasted peanuts, two things I’ve never seen. I just found it on Google Street View. It’s closed.
At a football game, Steinert getting clobbered as usual. Two dads heckle Coach Steve Simek from the top of the bleachers. “Hey Simek, why don’t you call another running play?” one sneers.
Go to Amherst, Mass. to see the University of Massachusetts. We stop at a McDonald’s in Connecticut for breakfast. They have napkins that say McDonald’s Pizza on them. I take a handful as souvenirs.
Collide with centerfielder in a game against Hightstown, break my arm, ending high school baseball career. Later that year, break my hand playing pickup basketball in college. Never broke a bone before that year, never broke one since.
First full-time job, a consultant 20 years my senior takes me out to lunch to thank me for helping her, gives me a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, asks me if I’m seeing anyone. “I’ve got some irons in the fire,” I say, though I don’t.
Working as press box attendant for the Trenton Thunder when a drunk wanders in, stands behind the sportswriters, watching the game. After a few minutes one writer gets up, asks me, “Who the —— is this guy?” So I escort the drunk out. Several minutes later a local college basketball coach comes into the press box. “What happened? Sparky says you kicked him out! You kicked out Sparky?” Their relationship is unclear.
In Bryce Canyon, my girlfriend is smitten by the plentiful ground squirrels that populate the national park. I take a photo of her making a face at one. Minutes later she runs one over with our rental car. “Do you think it was the same one? Do you think it was the same one?” she asks, stricken. I don’t.
The day after Mark McGwire breaks Roger Maris’ single-season home run record we happen to be in Fargo, N.D., home of the Roger Maris Museum (which is in a mall). The proprietor is inconsolable. “No one will ever remember what he did now,” he says.
Hear “Blest Are Those Who Love You,” for about the fifth Catholic wedding in a row. The popular “wedding psalm” was written by American Marty Haugen in 1987.
Fender bender just outside Trenton Marriott, horse cop just happens to be at the corner to witness it. Guy gets out of his car, looks at damage. “Sorry Officer, I didn’t see her. I was talking on my phone.” Officer whips out his citation book.
My dad refuses to catch zucchini cubes with his mouth at the hibachi restaurant. After two bounce off his blank face the chef moves on.
Cleveland, see a high school classmate in a brewpub, but neither of us says anything.
Shovel my snow-covered driveway, wondering if my dad would approve of the job I’m doing.
