It's a guy thing

Walking into the elevator alone, which is a good feeling. Express to the 13th floor. Suddenly I see a man running toward the doors as they start to slide closed. I stick my arm in the invisible, tumor-causing field and the doors go in reverse. He nods in lieu of a thank you.

“How ‘bout them Bears?”

I never knew people actually said this to strangers.

“How ‘bout’em,” I say in my noncommittal manner.

He begins to rattle off a list of names, draft picks from what I can tell, and looks to me for affirmation.

“They signed him for 17 million. Do we even know what he can do?”

“He can write his name on that check,” I say, praying he laughs and the subject is dismissed. I could have said that I don’t give a mad-ass fuck about the Bears or any other sports team. I don’t because to do that would make me feel too elitist. I’m not and I really don’t care if people watch sports. Still, I can’t say why, but for some reason I do not have it within me to tell a stranger that I hate football, baseball, basketball, etc. I can’t simply say, “I don’t care. But have you read Shakespeare’s Sonnet 138 lately? What about that new Polanski film coming out? Promising stuff!”

Instead I smile and nod my head and pretend I understand what the hell he is talking about.

“But me, man. I’m a Vikings fan really.”

“Really,” I say and finish with a line I once heard someone utter in a bar. “Well, I stopped watching the Bears on TV when my doctor advised me against it. He said the stress was going to kill me.”

He laughs. “I hear that.”

I exit and he tells me to, “Take ‘er easy.”

Men are so dumb