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Abraham and Townsend lived in an apartment on the south side of Colorado springs. Companionships were required to share bedrooms. Abraham slept on the bottom bunk. The modestly sized bedroom had one of those wide, shallow closets that encompassed most of the small, rearward wall. The closet doors were made of mirrored glass. But they were lined with laminate, perhaps for the purpose of preventing serious injury in case one missionary throws the other into the closet door.

In truth, threw is a bit of an embellishment. Towsnend pushed Abraham into the closet. Elder Thomas Jesse Abraham was about 6’2” and 240 pounds. And if you ask Townsend, Abe leaned into the fall, embellishing a bit. Neither were planning on the closet door shattering.

Prior to throwing Abe into the closet, Townsend was dubbed Anal Townsend by his fellow missionaries. This was because of his strict adherence to the rules. What the others didn’t know was that this was the first time Townsend strictly adhered to anything, for months-at-a-time anyway. Townsend was just being a missionary, as he was taught.

Townsend was Anal as in obedient. Anal as in wake up at 6:30 just as you were told you would when you were by the grown-ups as 5-year-old Sunbeam. Anal as in not calling home, not watching TV, not listening to Blink-182, not reading books. Townsend did all that- or didn’t do all that- he obeyed. And to his surprise, after a few transfers, he found he was one of the most obedient missionaries.
When he grew privy to this name, Townsend asked himself, why are these missionaries out here? Go back to college, go back to the girls, the freedom. Why are these fellas here if they don’t take it seriously? He didn’t get it. Anal Townsend. As if his apostate peers were outlaws. In his mind they were all Jesus Freaks. All of them in the monkey suits with the nametags. Any sort of punk display in this context was silly, he thought. That was when he was still trying to believe or whatever. He wasn’t anal before his mission. He was obedient now because all his life he was told this time would be wasted if he wasn’t obedient.

Towsend’s mission was his opportunity to perform for the first time in his life. After what he considered a failed high school experience- no girlfriend, no baseball team, no University, the mission was a fresh start. His chance to succeed at something. He eventually discovered that he did it more devoutly than anyone other than the vaunted Assistant the the President, Elder Astor. Elder Astor was rumored to have obsessive compulsive disorder. In addition to his obedience, his hands were always dry and flaky because apparently he washed them doozens of times a day. The fact that the only missionary in the mission whose level of obedience was satisfactory to the mission president gave Townsend pause.

When Townsend pushed Abraham into the door, the glass shattered, but it mostly stayed in-tact, remaining underneath the laminate. Except of course for the tiniest shard Abraham extracted from his big, white, pimpled back. After minutes of focused, strained searching, Abe shot out of the bathroom like a rod, exhibiting evidence high in the air. Proof of Townsend’s menace lied between Abraham’s thumb and forefinger, and he indeed had a tiny prick on his back. Blood.

Who is the best? Who is The greatest? Who is the The Goat? What’s your top ten this? Who’s your top five that? What’s the greatest movie, song, basketball player? Goat Goat Goat. Here’s a goat there’s a goat, everywhere’s a goat goat.

I saw someone’s name on a shabby old cafe marquee. This person was The Greatest Of All Time at co-owning a restaurant, I presume. Somewhere else, a church had G.O.A.T incorporated into their marquee somehow. I don’t remember the exact context and I don’t have the energy to use my creative license to fake one.

Admittedly, I’m guilty of contemplating favorites, bests, and compiling lists- as much as anyone else. Lately I’m thinking we could take a step back from all this rating business though. We’re all one- all connected.

I watched the most recent James Bond movie with my little brother a week or so ago. He lives in Houston, I live in San Antonio. Nick told me he was going to visit me for my birthday. He asked me what I wanted to do. I’m not feeling very creative these days. It would have been nice to show him the Riverwalk, but it was dark out. The Alamo is a tiny thing one drives by and is underwhelmed. I was tired. We’re all tired.

Ultimately, We ate at Shake Shack and then we went to see No Time To Die, the latest Bond movie.

When I was young, I lived with my brothers and our parents in a rural desert-like place called Valley Center. I remember the night when my Dad showed me and the boys a computer screen with mostly black, grey, and blue colors as he explained that the computer was communicating with other computers- but effectively, we had no internet, or cable TV. We didn’t get a single channel over the airwaves and my parents didn’t seem to make any effort to receive one. The old TV just sat in the living room as a piece of decor, until Friday night when we’d rent movies and eat pizza.

I’d typically find a spot on the floor. Belly-down as my folks explained to me who James Bond was and what he did. He was basically in the British version of the CIA. He was cool, clever, and quite suave with the ladies.

Bond movies were among the good ones. They always delivered. Even the so-called campy, or cheesy Roger Moore versions. 007 films were entertaining, fast-moving, and exciting. Chase scenes, all that. I liked it. We liked it. Maybe you didn’t. That’s fine.

James Bond wasn’t studied in either of the film classes I took in Junior College. During my twenties, when I developed a more pretentious love of films, I didn’t view Bond movies for all their commentary. No special edition DVD’s. No hanging on every word of the director as he reminisces over the day a scene was shot.

I think you catch my drift.

But my brother was coming to town and I didn’t know what we were going to to. We weren’t going to a bar. I decided on Shake Shack because I knew exactly where it was and I trusted the execution of a chain restaurant.

This post is being churned out because I was in bed this morning thinking about the Aston Martin Daniel Craig drives in No Time to Die. Not the ten million dollar silver car from the early 60’s, but the black one from the mid 70’s- the one he drives toward the end. I’ve always liked that car. It looks a little like the original Ford Mustang while also resembling an Aston. In words, that sounds like it might be terrible but I think it’s not. I’ve always like this old, under-stated Aston.

My little brother whispered over to me in the theatre- which one is that? They’re both awesome, but the subject here is the one one the right.

–Oh that’s a 70’s Aston, yeah I’ve always like that one. It’s like a fancy old Mustang.

Toward the end of Craig’s final Bond, there is an homage to the famed opening credits sequence where Bond quickly fires back at the camera followed by blood soaking the screen from top to Bottom. In No Time to Die, Craig (my favorite Bond), re-creates the shot. He’s positioned aesthetically in a cylindrical form in an old, abandoned, nuclear facility in the middle of the ocean when he turns and quickly vanquishes a foe with a single bullet from a small gun. We see it from the foe’s perspective, as we do in every opening sequence since the beginning of Bond.

The recreation of the iconic shot and simply the presence of the old, quieter Aston make this movie “good” to me. And they’re the kinds of details that are attended to during the process by people who love what they do, no matter how much they’re paid. And that’s why No Time To Die is a good movie deserving of a good review- to me, anyway.

When the Dodgers won the World Series I was croutched in the middle of the sailboat. In a yogic squat. Really high. Doing my evening thing with the stretching but also listening to the Dodgers broadcast from the distant LA radio station. Charlie Steiner and Rick Monday come through pretty scratchy at times, but I wouldn’t listen to anyone else.

That’s where it all began. Charlie and Rick on the way up the 101. On the way to Morro Bay. Escape.

“MAX MUNCY with a DEEP home run the other way!”

Three years ago. Driving through LA I was like “I’m gonna listen to the whole game.” Back then I didn’t know what Max Muncy looked like. My image of him was a 5’10 stocky black player, not unlike young Tony. Turns out he looks more like Paul Bunyan.

Maybe that was the day I let go of my childhood Padres team and embraced the Dodgers. First drive to Morro Bay? Sure, we’ll make that the day.

I’ve always had an affinity for the Sox, but they were second fiddle to the San Diego Padres growing up. Root for them in the regular season, root for the Sox in the playoffs, cuz the Padres ain’t making the playoffs.

In Boston, the Sox became my favorite baseball team, but I wasn’t rabid. I was working at the ravioli place and playing bass. The youngsters weren’t that into baseball. The 2013 Sox team won me over. It was a team of redemption. The year prior, supposedly they were drinking beer and eating fried chicken in the clubhouse during games. They cut the worst offenders before the start of the 2013 year. Then the marathon bombing happened. Papi told the fans that this was our fucking city and the rest is history. I approved of that team.

I returned to my birthplace a year later to the lackluster Padres. I felt obligated to root for them. Why on Earth was Tony Gwynn Jr. not a lifetime Padre? Did they even give him a chance? I know he doesn’t hit like his old man but we need a Gwynn on the field in this broken-hearted town. Why did the fans boo the San Diego Gay Men’s choir when they sang the national anthem? Was that for real?

Meanwhile, the Dodgers. Who are these guys? They’re all good. Every one of them.

I was deep in a yogic squat, eyes closed in the middle of the tiny boat. I was in the entry way to the bed area. Two little beds behind me, one on either side of the hardwood I was crouched on. Charlie Steiner told me to remember where I was. As if he needed to tell me.

The volume was low. The radio five feet up, to the left, felt distant. What was I thinking about? I was half-focusing. I was nervous. My team. And this was MY TEAM. Clayton, Joc, Mookie, Walker- this was my kinda team. My team was about to win the World Series.

I grew up here in San Diego a Padre fan. I was born in the fall of 81, and Tony Gwynn was pretty much playing full-time from that point until I was a missionary for my church in Colorado.

For those of you who don’t know, Tony is one of the best baseball players ever. People like to call him “one of the greatest hitters of all time” or they say he is a great “pure” hitter. I like to draw attention to Tony’s all-around athleticism. His outfield defense was superb and he was a star point guard at San Diego State. (Basketball)

CALLED STRIKE THREE on the outside corner! Charlie bursted. And I, in my squat, eyes closed- I let out a giggle. Then I cried. You probably think I cry about baseball all the time but no, not really. I cried when Tony died of course and I cried when the Dodgers won the World Series.

YO, Air-Head!

EARTH TO AARON-

Uh Oh, We’ve lost him!

Maverick’s disengaged!

Not again!

He’s waaaaaay out.

talk to me goose

What was it he said he needed last night?

He needed a row.

Waaaaaaay out in left field.

Right, he needed a row.

A row for the boat.

Talk to me goose

Not a paddle, not an oar.

You know, a ROW, he said.

He ran up the hill, pissed off.

Don’t say that word.

-Is he even in there? My goodness!

HELLO!!!

Holy Mackerel, he really is on another planet this time!

What was he saying the other night?

talk to me Goose

He wanted to live in the country, on a farm.

Right! But the next minute he wanted the city.

Yeah, he wanted to live downtown.

The plaque for the alternates is in the ladies room

You gotta do certain things on Saturdays, like put the sausages in the freezer.

Delington, is that a euphemism?

My last day was a Saturday. The big day! The biggest day of the week. Sunday off, thank goodness! Saturdays are real busy with all the Tufts kids and everything.

So, Saturday. My last day. I walked over to The Deli. Davy was long gone. It was dusk, summer in beautiful Somerville. Closed for an hour or so. Davy had cleaned up real good. The slicers were clean, the knives were clean. The counters, everything was nice and clean. I opened the fridges and looked at the stacks of turkey and capicola and I thought that perhaps it was the last time I was gonna be doing this.

I was so charged up, but it was this quiet moment and I remember thinking that this was a big deal. Not that I had really lost my temper this time. I kind of knew that was a big deal, the temper thing, but I was going to have to process that later. There were going to be a lot of changes. What was really on my mind though, as I looked at the provolone and manchego, was that I would not be opening the fridge doors anymore. No more fish days, I knew that was big.

Fish Day, Delington!

They called my stacks of meat Delington Stacks. I was proud of them. They were nice and tight. I’d try to stack slices like salami, that came in a tube, back into the cylindrical form they arrived in. Chris and Davy did a fine enough job. It didn’t really matter, but their stacks were easily distinguished from mine. Their salami slices hung out a centimeter or so. No big deal. But I thought I did it well and I was proud of it because I didn’t feel like I did a lot of things very well. I knew it was a silly thing but what can you do?

Sam named me Delington. Aaron Delington. Chris was named Chris Delis. Delis plural. Davy was The Duke of the Deli, or Deli Duke. We listened to Bruce Springsteen, Rancid, Goo Goo Dolls, and a lot of other bands that are too cool for you.

I think both Adnan and Jay did it. It is all sad and very interesting. My thoughts aren’t final. I wish nobody was guilty.