My son and I went on a baseball trip to middle-of-nowhere West Virginia a couple of weeks ago.
A lovely–but remote–little American town with nothing (much) but a baseball diamond and a general store. I’m sure the residents would argue that there isn’t “nothing” there but I’m also sure they would agree with me that in this context, there is “nothing” there. One of them even jokingly referred to it as “Hicksville.”
Anyway, the mom of a boy on my son’s team said, “Did you notice that your son’s name is on a Coke bottle in the general store?”
Now, my son doesn’t have a common name. In fact, I’ve only heard of a couple of other kids with his name. And yet there, in the middle of a very small town in WV, in a general store, in a back refrigerator, on a Coke bottle … there it was.
Oh, and I gave it to Bennett in the dugout (he was finished playing for that game) and predictably, he drank it and threw away the bottle. Luckily, anticipating this, I had taken a photo of the bottle before giving it to him.
Deja Vu All Over Again
You may recall that I’ve had a similarly eerie Coke bottle experience with my novel, Sliding Home. You can read the whole post here, but essentially, I put a some money in a vending machine on Centre Island (!) and out popped a Diet Coke with my novel’s exact title on it. I didn’t even notice until I was about half-way through drinking it.
So, thanks, Coke, for narrating my life in a really weird way.