A flashback from Thursday, September 8, 2011

Sometime in early March…

When is a bug not a bug?

Life begins not with the sensation of light.  Life begins with a click and an input of sound.  A bug like this will never comprehend that sound; just take it in.  If it had eyes, it may see an elderly man, tall despite his age, with muscles that belong to a man as young as his companion on this day when the bug comes alive.  No nerve will tell the bug that it has left the warmth of a hand, nor will it detect the hard, cold surface it now sits upon.  Sound.  It takes in only sound, such as…

“I love my son, but you cannot trust him.”  And, “Then why am I keeping him in the organization?” No eyes tell the bug that the old man is speaking to the younger.  Just sound passing through what is its ear… of sorts.  “I pray I am wrong, but protect yourself, for you can’t trust her either; I learned that the hard way.”  Emotion is lost on this bug – a bug that has moved not an inch since its awakening and arrival on the hard surface of a table.  In an auditory world the tear falling down the old man’s cheek is lost, as is the heartfelt, “It hurts me to say these things, Mikey.  I know you’ll make the right choices for the team.”

Motion.  Warmth.  Once more in a shaky palm; all meaningless to the bug, and then warm once more in a hand of far more strength.

When a bug is a bug…

Sometime on March 28…

Jostled and then awakened once more by a great force upon a soft surface.  Sound all around.  Sound full of life and excitement under a bright sun that warms the bug but fails to stimulate flight.  Motion.  Swirling.  Climbing.  Would eyes grace the body of this bug, it would see tall buildings, a towering column, and a crowd of people with eager anticipation.  Cheers are distant.

Nearby, a clear voice: “’Dude, like, is it true?’  And I told him, ‘Frickin’-A it’s true, dude!’”  Spoken in manner that a being with a brain would recognize as shear lunacy, but not by this bug.

Close by, a clear, curt voice… low, grumbled… “Who is this lunatic?” The speaker clearly has a brain.  Coughs and mumbles emit from this low, curt voice.

Uproarious applause.  Just noise to our bug, to the beings all over, it is sheer joy… all but one.  All recorded by this glittering bug… “What an idiot; we’ll be lucky to win 70,” said in that gruff voice following a slightly distant… “Lastly, I’d like to introduce you to the new General Manager of your Aurora Borealis…”

The bug just sits there upon the wool of a man’s suit, soaking up sun, soaking up sound, but breathing not a bit.  Motion once more, then in a loud, angry voice: “It’s Rodriguez, you dumbass, not Hernández!” Then silence.

After a few moments, the bug gets what it was intended for.  Not eating, not mating, but sound.  Sound, which will change the course of a baseball franchise.

The curt, low voice: “I can’t believe it.  How could he do this?  Selling my team to that popcorn jockey?” Followed by a soft, accented voice: “It’s going to be OK, Chris.  Trust me, we’ll be OK.”

The conversation continued; low, gruff words alternating with the accented voice we might recognize as being Italian, perhaps.  “Yeah, but in the meantime, he’ll destroy my team.”  “I didn’t see this coming.  I thought for sure we were, pardon the pun, golden.”

The low voice; the closer voice, snorts in disgust, “He deserved to die even more so now.”  “We just have to reevaluate, adjust and come up with a new plan.”  Motion, this time rapid and circular as the gruff voice speaks less lowly: “Do you have any ideas?” “I do”  “And that would be…?”

“Penny.”

A bug of this species will never recognize emotion.  Not anger.  Not hope.  Not sheer unadulterated shock.  To a knowing ear, it may recognize that emotion as the gruff voice spoke, “What are you talking about?” “Don’t you know?  She was a shady lady.”  “Well, yeah, I knew that.  But what are you talking about?”

Since all he does is absorb sound, the bug does not see the older gentleman lean towards the younger and whisper, “She owns 25% of the team.”  The silence of the younger, gruffer voice speaks loudly.  “One night, after they were married, she got him drunk and got him to place 25% of the team’s ownership into the John Rodriguez Trust.  Guess who the trust is for?”  “Beats me.”

In a voice both thick and excited: “For her.  Guess who the trustee is?”  Gruffly following a snort: “Well, it’s not me; that much I know.”  “Me.”

Moving once more, the motion-sensing-less bug continues to hear the gruff voice that is so close.  “Why did she do that?” “She wanted a piece of the team and the old man refused.  She knew she could hide it easily if a trust was created in his name.  He was already a little batty, so she came to me and, well, let’s just say we swung a deal.”

You and I would see disgust in the eyes of the younger man as he gazes sideways towards the older man with the accented voice.  The bug hears, “So I wouldn’t have had the whole team anyway?  Why didn’t you tell me this before we…”  “Shhh… doesn’t matter; you’d still have had the majority interest.  She’ll sell to you.  I guarantee that.”

Darkness.  Cold.  The bug, as we know too well now, cannot tell, but as the light and the heat of the sun leave, our friend the bug hears, “So how do we get the rest of the team from Mikey?” “I need to think.  I’ve got some friends on the east coast who may be able to help.”  “What are you saying?  Do you mean…”

With that, the bug hears no more as the two voices that the bug was designed to hear drop into a parking garage below the square.

When is a bug not a bug?