Purple Ping Pong Balls

“So, can I tell you a story?”

My friend Mary blinks at me, her brisket burger paused in mid-flight. The breeze blows in the front door of the bbq pit as if on cue, causing the décor of hung license plates to dance and ding metallically against the walls. An eerie silence falls over the restaurant and I surreptitiously check for lone tumbleweed. Even though there are only a few other patrons present, I look around to see if maybe someone else has heard my question and has fallen silent, hoping to hear the story. Nope.

“Um, sure,” Mary replies. Then she smiles. I am not in the habit of asking to tell stories. Write stories, absolutely. Tell them, not so much (I’m very cautious in the way I tell stories; my mother and grandmother are infamous for taking 20 minutes to tell a 5 minute interlude. I have great genetic fears of taking on this trait as I age.).

“Okay, well, this story is about purple ping pong balls. Once upon a time - ” Mary’s snort cuts me off mid-sentence and I see her shoulders start to shake a little with laughter. She’s laughing around a mouthful of brisket but motions with her right hand for me to continue. While I hope she doesn’t choke, I really want to take this moment to advise her to get her laughs in now. I swallow the urge. “Right, there’s this little boy and it’s Christmastime, and his parents are trying to come up with ideas on what to get him. And all he says he wants is a purple ping-pong ball. OH! and he’s two, two-and-a-half, don’t know if I mentioned that before…”

I’m on an unsteady roll, so I hastily clamber over the boy’s 6th birthday, Christmas, and thirteenth birthday before I remember that I forgot to throw in the therapy session.
“Now, as little Johnny’s thirteenth birthday approaches – wait, I guess it already passed, nevermind – but remember? Remember how he expressed his desire for yet more purple ping-pong balls? Well, that was when his parents decided that they’d been worried long enough and decided to send him to therapy…”

“Hold up: the boy is thirteen and the parents are just now sending their kid to the shrink?” Mary’s laughter is loud and (sadly) merited, but inside I’m beating myself over the head. Details, woman! See the importance of chronology??? Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. “Oh wait,” she says breathlessly, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “This is a joke, right?”

In my mind my eyes roll backward with enough force to knock me over, but in reality I smile tightly and will myself to continue. “Johnny goes to the therapist, sits down, and looks him in the eye. Does he know why his parents sent him here?…,” blah blah blah, five minutes later swing around to this, “… and before he knows it, his graduation rolls around. What do you suppose he wants?”

“Purple ping-pong balls.” Mary’s monotone response is muffled by the sound of the trash she’s collecting in the middle of her tray.

“Exactly! But his parents get him a car!” Hopeful pause. “Filled to the brim with purple ping-pong balls!”

This time it’s Mary’s smile that’s a little tight. Hurry up, that smile says. It takes everything I have not to apologize right here and now for this tired story, but instead I speed up, leaning in towards her, letting my hands describe the fateful drive to the restaurant, the crash, the ping-pong balls exploding in an arc across the freeway, the way the father trips on them as he runs across the road to his son. Now Mary is dipping in towards me, silently sipping her drink through her straw, eyes wide with wonder if not a little fear.

“The father kneels beside his son and sees that Johnny isn’t doing well. In fact, it’s Johnny’s last moments on earth and they both know it. He takes his son’s hand in his own and feels the tears well up in his eyes. ‘I love you, Johnny. You’ve been the best son your mother and I could ever hope for.’ Johnny’s eyes fill up, too, before letting his head fall to the side. ‘Johnny!’ his father cries, scooping him up against his chest. ‘Don’t leave! At least, don’t leave before answering me this!’ Leaning in, the father whispers in his son’s ear, ‘Why…purple…ping-pong…balls?’ Johnny smiles faintly, then succumbs to death.” I sit back with great finality and a there-you-have-it gesture.

Mary is silent as she studies the last bite of her sandwich then pops it in her mouth. I wait. Nada. “Dude, that’s it.” More silence. “I wish there was a better punchline,” I add lamely.

Mary raises her eyebrows and looks at me. I shrug. The story hangs blankly in the air between us. Suddenly she explodes into laughter and says, between gasps, “I thought this was a joke your Dad told you!”

And at this point I have to laugh with her, because, really, when it comes to Norwegian humor, you either have to hail from North Dakota or have a translator handy. Bless her heart for bravely sticking out a potential joke from the Old Country. Thank god for good friends – and good listeners.

* * * * * * *
If there is anything I’ve learned from sharing this particular story, it is this: MAKE YOUR ENDING MEANINGFUL. I found that when I went to share this piece, I freaked myself out a little bit because there was no solid ending. No explanation. That drives me crazy! And to transfer that feeling of craziness on to a listener, a close friend?! Made me sweat a bit, I’ll admit it. Perhaps this exercise made it clear to me that as a writer, I need to make sure my endings are tied up. Make sure my story has some pomp and support from start to finish. I can be a lot prouder of reading a story that I feel 100% confident about in regards to the intent and conclusion of the piece.