Skeleton sits in a reclining chair in the living room with the TV on, nothing left but clothes and leathery dried out skin.

John: Dead?

Jay: Yep. You don’t need to be a doctor to figure that out.

John: How long do ya think the body has been here?

Jay: Months. Maybe a year. Not much left of it.

John: Jeez. You think some one might of smelled it.

Jay: You think someone might have missed him.

John: TV was on when I got here, suppose someone else might have been here?

Jay: I can’t imagine. On-line accounts, I would guess. Hell, with enough money in the bank, the utilities could run forever. I wonder how old you would have to be before social security became suspicious and stops sending you checks?

John: Looks like a wallet on the table.

(Opens it and pulls out a driver’s license)

John: Hmm, according to his id he is eighty years old. He must of been retired, so no one missed him at work.

Jay: Look, it looks like the corner of his lips are turned up, like just a hint of a smile.

John: Weird, I didn’t notice that on the way in.

Jay: I don’t think he was married either.

John: How do you know?

Jay: Look at this place. Laptops, electronics, engine parts, microscopes, lab equipment. In the living room. All that wine and wine making equipment and god only knows what that other stuff is in the kitchen. Trust me. No wife.

John: It seems so sad. No wife to miss you.

Jay: Shit! He jumps back a half step knocking his partner into the wall.

John: What the fuck, guy.

Jay: The leathery skin around his eye sockets is crinkly…as if he were happy. It wasn’t like that a second ago.

John: You’re just imaging things.

(Finds an iPhone charging on a wall socket)

John: Has a lot of contacts in his phone list.

(Scrolls through the list, reading the names and notes)

John: Sister with a 616 area code, not sure where that is, looks like Cleveland according to the address. Sister with a 617 area code, Boston address. Sister with a 202 area code, New York address. Huh, interesting note. Family, the other F word. Nobody on the west coast. All remote.

Jay: Jesus Christ! Look, his jaw just dropped. If I didn’t know better, I, I, … I would think he is laughing. Can we get out of here? This dude is givin’ me the creeps.

John: We gotta find someone to contact.

Jay: What else is on the list?

John: (Scrolls some more.) Interesting…

Jay: Come on! What is it? You can’t just say interesting and stop.

John: Oh sorry. The name of woman. Joan. International phone number. Malaysian address. The notes section is full of broken heart emoji’s.

(Reads more)

John: Here is a local number.

(Dials)

John: Hi, Mr Smith. Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Jones.

Dave: Yeah. Mike. Used to be best friends. He left on long trip about a year ago. Said he wanted some peace and quiet. Would find me when he gets back.

John: I see. Well, I think he had his year of peace and quiet.

(A crash. The head falls off the skeleton and rolls on the carpet. Stops. The skin powders into the atmosphere along with all the dust it kicks up)

John and Jay together (falling over one another, John drops the phone): Fuck!

John (gaining composure, picks up iPhone): You look more like the ghost than that guy.

Jay (pale white): Let’s get the hell out of here.

The muskeg smells earthy, for sure, not putrid though. The cold water trickles up the leg of my wet suit as I back up to the starting line trying not to trip clumsily over my fins.

I hate cold water but can’t pass on the opportunity for sport and fun. Besides, when else can I dress up like a frog? I adjust my goggles, push my snorkel through my frog-face hat, and give the thumbs up sign. The gun fires. I leap forward into the cold water that fills my suit and sends a shiver down my spine before my body can warm it. Or is that just the adrenaline of the race? I fin through the gritty slimy water filled with decaying sphagnum moss shed from the spruces and larches of the taiga forest. The use of arms is not allowed under the rules of the race.

I frog my way forward towards the finish line costumed in my black spotted green leopard frog cape, the frog eyes on my mask just breaking the surface. The crowd cheers me on, getting louder as I near the finish line, sixty yards from the start of the five foot wide channel.

I stand at the finish line, the muck clinging to me like some bog monster in a bad movie, raising my fists over my head in victory. My heart continues to pound as I regain my breath. The exhilaration and the exertion of the race drowned the cold back in the first ten yards. I remove my goggles and frog-face hat.

I know Samaki and Haraka will have better times. Both are much stronger swimmers than I. Maybe I’ll get an honorable mention for costume. Andie walks over to me with a towel so I can dry off.

“You are in first place”, she says proudly.

“Ha ha. That should stand until the second swimmer.”

The contestants enter the water one at a time each in their bog suits of fish, boats, and one guy tried to pedal a bicycle each taking their shot at fame and fashion.

“You won!” Andie congratulates me with a generous hug.

“Really?” I said genuinely surprised. “What happened to Samaki and Haraka? They are both much better swimmers. What were their times?”

“Neither of them raced. They both got sick” Andie says.

“Both? Really?” Even on a festive occasion like this, with games and conversation and community, the moss hanging from the trees, the fog, and the cold make the taiga forest seem like a sinister and foreboding place.

“Yes, both. The doctors diagnosed it as mushroom poisoning. They both ate some Larch boletes” she explains.

“Those aren’t poisonous. We eat those all the time” I counter.

“Well, the only plausible hypothesis is that you poisoned them to win. Everyone knows.” she kids.

I feel my face turn warm. I blush. I turn my head away so she cannot see. “They don’t really think that do they?”

Andie may not see my face redden but she reads my hesitation and voice as if the emotion was stamped on my forehead. She doubles over with laughter. “Of course not, silly. Oh, and by the way, Chaza won best outfit.”

“I happily concede. She deserves it. Any one willing to jump in that cold, dirty water with nothing but a clam shell bikini gets all the prizes as far as I am concerned.” A surge of lust flashes through my body. I blush again.

Without looking, Andie reads me just as easily as the last time.

Bottom of the tenth inning. The winning run is at the plate. Montgomery throws, hangs a curve. Martinez rips it into the left field stands and the Indians win the world series. The stadium erupts in a pandemonium that lasts for thirty minutes. My brother Bruce texts a curse and calls Maddon the worst manager ever. He throws his cell phone on the ground. It will be a week before I hear from him again. The fans that aren’t enraged or crying just stare blankly into the void in disbelief looking forward without seeing.

So it goes.

Maddon’s blunder explodes into another Cub’s legend joining goats and Bartman and Garvey. Instead of an amazing season in which the Cubs achieved the best win record in Cubs history and a National League championship, they are remembered as a team that choked. Forget the amazing moments when Maddon worked his magic during the regular season: a two-strike suicide squeeze; toggling a pitcher between left field and the pitcher’s mound; pulling his team out of slump; pulling off post-season victories against the Giants and the Dodgers. Everyone will remember the one moment in the last inning of the last out of the last game and forget all the rest.

So it goes.

Tomorrow comes. History moves on. There is nothing to do but ride out the winter in the post-partum dullness of the off season. No tears, no joy, no ebullience, no uncertainty, no heartache and no awe. And no memory of great victory.

So it goes.

But wait ’til next year!