>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf
January 4, 2006

Read more snippets...Tom: So, you’re not gonna write about that guy coming over, are you?
Nathan: Of course not, Tom. I have better things to write about than the stuff that happened today.

Late Sunday afternoon, I was over at my buddy Tom’s house, watching the Redskins/Eagles game. I was just telling Tom how I’d have to cancel my Dallas bet if the ‘Skins won, because said win would eliminate the Cowboys from playoff contention and thus eliminate their motivation (I’m proud of my gambling theories, sometimes), when someone knocked on Tom’s door.

Now, Tom’s a great guy. He works relatively hard and he thrives on having a good time, but he doesn’t live in the nicest neighborhood. In fact, he lives in the kind of neighborhood where an unexpected knock on the door is cause for Tom to grab the baseball bat next to his television and peer through his door’s peephole (or peerhole, whichever you prefer). After looking for the cause of the knock, Tom spied a harmless-looking gentleman in a brown suit.

What do you want?” Tom welcomed the stranger without opening the door.

“I just want to talk to you about helping the community by putting a stop to drug and gang influence,” said the man.

Tom looked at me and shrugged.

I said, “Well, the neighborhood could use the help.”

Tom put down the bat, opened the door and introduced himself to the gentleman, whose name was Darius. Darius offered warm smiles, hearty handshakes, and an interest in the football game, so Tom invited him to sit.

Darius then dove into his whole spiel about the programs that his organization was utilizing to help kids stay off of drugs and out of gangs. It sounded like the typical stuff: after-school sports and education at the local park and community building, meals, and financial support for gang victims. I would tell you more of the details, but I had a hundred bucks on that game and was too busy hoping for the ‘Skins to get the ball back and score a touchdown to really focus on what was said.

Tom, on the other hand, was riveted.

“Hey man, you want a beer?” asked Tom.

“Well,” said Darius, looking at his watch. “I guess it’s not too early for a beer.”

It was, after all, almost 7pm.

As we drank with Darius and the game got tighter, our conversation drifted away from the possibility of drugged and ganged youth, took a right turn at a Hooter’s commercial, and ended up deep in football talk. Namely, that the hometown Buccaneers would be playing the banged up Redskins in Tampa if the ‘Skins could pull this one out.

At some point during the conversation, while Darius was on his third beer, Tom produced a marijuana cigarette, lit it and passed it to Darius, who, for whatever reason, inhaled.

“Hey Darius,” said Tom. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, getting kids off of drugs and stuff?”

“Well, yeah,” said Darius. “But I really don’t feel like I’m working anymore. You’ve been such a great host that—”

“Okay, get out of my house,” said Tom. And he meant it.

Darius handed the joint back to Tom and left quietly.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked Tom.

“He was being a hypocrite,” said Tom. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s hypocrites.”

“Fair enough.”

In case you’re looking for it, this story has no moral.


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