“That will be $387.44. Will that be cash, credit, or would you like to pay for it in six easy monthly installments? We also offer financing at an unbelievably low rate of …”

“Wait a moment,” I interrupted. “All I’m buying is one super gigantic monster tub of popcorn, with extra butter; seven foot-long hot dogs on whole wheat buns with sauerkraut; a carton of Milt’s Marvelous Malted Milk Chocolate Yummies, and a small diet soda with no ice.”

“Oh, no ice. Sorry, my mistake. That’ll be … let’s see … yes, that’s only $29 even.”

That sounded a little better, but I guess it was all relative. At least I didn’t have to take out a second mortgage on my house just to pay the stadium prices for snacks at the football game.  I hadn’t seen the Bats play for years;  a friend had given me a ticket and I was thrilled.

As she handed me the food, the attendant at the cash register asked, “Where are you sitting?”

“I’m in Section J Row 12,” I beamed.

“Ah, great seats! Well, enjoy the game,” she remarked with a smile.

I was reflecting on what a nice person she was, as I meandered through the crowd. I found Section J, and I was descending to Row 12 when the announcer cried out, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise for the Star Spangled Banner!”

I was excited. This was my favorite part.

However, the announcer continued. “But first, is there a cardiologist in the stadium? A man is heading to Section J Row 12 having just purchased one super gigantic monster tub of popcorn with extra butter, seven foot long hot dogs on whole wheat buns with sauerkraut, a carton of Milt’s Marvelous Malted Milk Chocolate Yummies, and a small diet coke with no ice.”

I heard gasps all around me.

“Just imagine,” said one elderly woman with bright orange hair and matching lipstick. “He probably smokes too.”

“Yeah, boy,” replied the guy sitting next to her. “He (burp) would eat us out of house and home.”

I tried to discreetly make my way to my seat.

“There he is,” cried a little girl. “There’s the man!” I winced, but still I glanced over at her. She was pointing at me.

“That’s him,” a boy shouted.

“That’s he,” I shouted back. He looked down in shame. That’ll teach him, I thought smugly.

“Look at all that food,” cried another.

“How can he do it!” shouted yet another.

“The horror!” grimaced a large middle-aged man as he stuffed another chicken finger into his mouth.

It’s true that I had been planning on eating all the food. I hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours, due to a series of unfortunate events culminating in accidentally getting folded up in one of those couch hide-a-beds. I don’t quite know how it happened. I had been watching television by myself, and I leaned back to stretch, and apparently I leaned a bit too far. Anyway, I’m glad my friend Clovis stopped by, and I’m doubly glad that he began searching the couch for his lost wristwatch. He didn’t find the watch but he did rescue me.

Anyway, when I reached my row and began stepping over people to find my seat, a brilliant idea struck me.

“Here you go,” I said to the man sitting in seat #1. “Bought this for you.”

He stared at me for a long moment, and then appreciatively he murmured, “Uh, thanks,” and he accepted the hot dog.

I did the same for the woman sitting in seat #2. “And bought this for you,” I told her. She thanked me and accepted the food.

I continued this all the way to my seat. By the time I reached my targeted site, all I had left was the diet soda. I sat down, opened the straw, and was about to partake of that first glorious ice cold sip, so wonderful on a hot sunny muggy day, when I noticed the blinking brown eyes of a cherubic little girl, perhaps six or seven years old, who was sitting next to me. She smiled and continued blinking.

Her father, I guess it was, said to her, “What do you say to the nice man?”

The girl looked at him and then back at me.

“Thank you sir,” she said politely. And she reached out and removed the diet soda from my hand.

“Oh, this is so good, so cool, so refreshing,” she said after a long sip. She smiled again.

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I smiled meekly. I was pondering what I should do about my food situation – or lack thereof – when I heard a yell from below.

“Give me a B!” a cheerleader somewhere down on the sidelines yelled.

“B,” the crowd roared.

“Give me an A!” she yelled again.

“A,” the crowd responded.

“Give me a T!” came the cheerleader’s cry.

“T,” the crowd replied.

“Give me an apostrophe!” the cheerleader demanded.

“Apostrophe,” the crowd yelled.

“Give me an S!” came the cheerleader’s yell.

I, however, was quick to jump in to put an end to this travesty.

“No!” I shouted defiantly.

There was silence.

“I said, give me an S!” came the yell again from somewhere down below.

“No!” I shouted again. I was feeling a bit obstreperous and considerably annoyed.

“Why not?” shouted the cheerleader, emerging from the crowd.

I blinked twice. I removed my glasses, breathed on them, wiped them with a tissue, and put them back on my face. It didn’t help.

There, right there in front of me, in a cheerleader dress with two pom poms, stood Aunt Ruth.

At the moment I saw her, she saw me.

A sly smile formed on her countenance.

“Oh no,” I thought to myself.

“Oh yes,” I imagined her thinking.

“Give me an N!” she began.

“N,” the crowd responded.

“Give me an A!” she continued.

“A,” the crowd obediently echoed.

And she continued with many more letters until she completed her phrase.

“What does that spell?” she yelled.

“Nauseating Nephew,” the crowd gleefully roared.

“What?” she screamed.

“Nauseating Nephew!” the crowd shouted, even louder.

“One more time!” she commanded.

“Nauseating Nephew!” the crowd exploded.

She then marched up to my row in a rather pompous and grandiose fashion.

“Hey Nitwit Nephew, what’s eating you?”

“Aunt Ruth, you spelled BAT’S with an apostrophe.”

“So? Since when did someone say that you could declare apostrophes to be illegal?”

“They’re not illegal. But you don’t use apostrophes to turn a singular noun into a plural noun.”

“What do you mean?’ she asked.

“One flying mouse is a bat; two are bats. There is no apostrophe in that plural word.”

“I see it all the time,” she argued.

“Aunt Ruth, it’s gross. It’s just wrong, plain wrong. I have two dogs. I saw three flies. I ate two cows. I found six …”

“You ate two cows?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s just an example,” I countered.

“Well, I don’t know … I mean, after you ate seven hot dogs, I’d think that …”

“Aunt Ruth, listen. Some words you add an ’s’ to if you want it to be plural. Sometimes you add ‘es,’ and sometimes you may do something like change a ‘y’ to ‘i’ and add ‘es.’ But never ever do you add an apostrophe because you want a plural.”

“But what about this: I ate the dog’s food.”

“That’s not plural then,” I said. “That’s possessive. You have a dog. You ate his food. You ate the dog’s food.”

“My dog is Fifi,” she defiantly stated.

“What?”

“Fifi. It’s a she. You said I ate his food. I didn’t. I ate her food.”

“Whatever,” I sighed.

“I have two cats. What do I do about that?” she asked.

“Make a fur coat?” I suggested with a smug smile.

WHAM!

I hadn’t noticed that she had an umbrella in one hand.

My head was still spinning from that blow.

“Uh, sorry,” I apologized. “Two cats? You would say, ‘I ate my cats’ food.’ Put the apostrophe after cats.”

“Oh I see!” she exclaimed.

“You do?” I asked.

“Well, not really, but the game is starting.”

“Just remember this: apostrophes are for possessives and contractions.”

“Contractions? Like when you’re in heavy labor and the baby’s arrival is imminent?”

“Say good night, Aunt Ruth.”

“Good night, Aunt Ruth.”

And she bounded back down the steps in a series of hand springs that ended in a split on the fifty yard line.

The crowd was roaring, “Aunt … Ruth … Aunt … Ruth … Aunt … Ruth,” as I made my way back to the hot dog lady. I was still hungry.