Clinton, South Carolina, Friday, March 16, 2018, 4:15 p.m.

Trial and error. Risk and reward. Deadlines and commitments. Random meetings.

A few nights ago, I bumped into a man I grew up with at Dollar General. I bought some soap and a box of Raisin Bran. Even though I live in a small town, and I haven’t made a trip that was even mildly ambitious in over a year, I don’t actually see everyone. I hadn’t seen this guy in ten years.

He was aware I write books. He’s still in town. He looks a bit the worse for wear, but I do, too. I knew his mother and father had died. I wasn’t sure he hadn’t. He looked a little pale, but I’d be very surprised if he was a ghost.

Some people I bump into a lot. Some people I wish I didn’t.

Such meetings are awkward. Time has too many gaps. Both parties are ill at ease because they’re worried they’ll say the wrong thing. Being ill at ease is what leads one to see a grieving person at a funeral home and ask, “How you been doing?”

And it leads to another lie. “I’m fine.”

I’ve talked to the mayor, the city manager and a councilman today. Pretty soon, I’m liable to start thinking I’m somebody.

It is popularly believed that I love Clinton. I don’t. I just know it. Over my life I’ve gradually concluded I’m unfit to live anywhere else. As we used to sing when the band played the occasional knockoff North Carolina’s fight song: “We’re Clinton born and Clinton bred, and when we die, we’ll be dead as hell.” It’s the Clinton Red Devils. Get it?

Clinton High School opened a baseball-softball complex in 2017. Between the two diamonds is a building that provides concessions and relief for both. They share a flag pole, too, which means that when the national anthem is played, everyone at the baseball game stands at attention facing uphill and over the top of the grandstands. It sort of makes me feel as if the flag is gallantly streaming o’er the ramparts.

Sometimes I wish I could use a dial phone again. Not all the time. Just occasionally. For old times’ sake. I’d gladly give up Facebook direct messaging. If Twitter wants to go back to 140 characters, it’s fine by me. All it would do is shorten my book promos. I’d rather social networks didn’t give me enough rope to hang myself. What’s a click between friends?

I like the first week of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament better than the last one. I’m fond of upsets.

It is time to get the taxes done. Damn it.

I find baseball relaxing. I do not find walk-up music relaxing.

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