Pray for me

Under normal circumstances, I would never ask for them. I realize that prayers are special. They are like cuts of exotic meat stuffed in the back of the freezer behind ice packs and TV dinners, staying put until the time is right. When the moment arrives that you’re too tired to cook, you’re overcome with joy at the prospect of not preparing something overly complicated. But I have problems – problems that won’t be solved by simple thawing methods. I need help. Where am I going to get it though? From you?

Too many people are selfish, only thinking of themselves. They don’t stop and consider my problems, my needs, my demands. They’re trapped in their own heads worrying about their own day-to-day. It’s incredible when you think about it. Here I am, in need of counsel, and they’re more concerned with how they’re going to fix the gutters or put food on the table. Recently, I met one of my closest friends for a game of midnight croquet. The sound of a traditional wooden mallet hitting traditional wooden balls bathed in the moonlight, amid hooting owls and hollering mental patients, is restorative in ways that are only rivaled by the latest pharmaceutical breakthrough.

My friend began lamenting how he had to dry dock his yacht. He  barreled on, ticking off the problems with the toilet on board, the rusty anchor, and the warped floorboards in the captain’s quarters. I listened, astonished at how oblivious a person can be. My yacht is somewhere in the Gulf of Aden, sold at a loss to pirates a few years back. It’s a sensitive subject for me. Yes, I still have several helicopters, a few small planes and a teleportation prototype I won from a diplomat after a heated game of Go Fish. However, none of those are suited for water. Except one of my planes, which is a seaplane. The sound of pontoons touching down on a placid Alaskan lake is restorative in ways that are only rivaled by binging on a formulaic procedural legal drama. The fact remains, I’m a boatless man in a world mostly covered by water. My friend should’ve known that. Should’ve realized that. How was I supposed to play croquet under such duress?

I got home from the match, supremely irritated and decided to make pasta – something I’ve done millions of times before. When I finished cooking and sat down to indulge in a traditional, post-croquet carbo-load, I noticed something quite disturbing. The pasta was overcooked. I made it again. Not good enough. And again. Still not right. I couldn’t get it. I wasted dozens of boxes of perfectly good pasta trying to get the ideal texture. Not al dente, but not dente either. 

In my steaming haze, I found myself thinking of Al Dente, the man. An anxious man who would eat his emotions by the bowl. Disturbed by the texture of his Sunday dinners, he began scooping out linguine from a boiling pot. This dangerous practice led to burns, skin grafts, bone-chilling shrieks, hospital visits and violent protests from family members. He didn’t stop though. He wanted something that tasted better. His family tried everything – diets, rehabs, hypnosis. None of it worked. He began eating pasta straight out of the box, claiming at least there, it was “untouched by the sins of man.” This wasn’t true, of course. Who did he think put it inside? This was long before robot pasta makers. 

In the darkest days, you’d see him walking down 2^nd Avenue, having heard him a few blocks before. The rhythmic sound of raw noodles tapping against naked cardboard makes anyone who knew him tear up to this day. It was unmistakable. Don't let become another Al Dente. I don't have nearly enough aloe for that lifestyle.