The Girl with the Leopard Tattoo

It's a long story.  Long.  I'll get to it, maybe.  I don't know if I am up to it today.  Maybe part.  I don't know.  I have too many worries to know anything anymore.  

"A man alone ain't got no bloody fucking chance."

Hemingway said that in "To Have and Have Not."  It's a fair statement, but I don't know if anyone has a bloody fucking chance.  To riff on his Nobel Acceptance Speech, company might palliate the loneliness.  He was speaking of writing groups, though.  A writer who listens to what others say about his/her writing will begin to write like the herd.  I think that is what Hem meant.  It's like aspiring to be a photographer by watching YouTube videos.  

I wander.  

I didn't do much yesterday.  I seem to do less and less each day.  But I do what I must.  Yesterday afternoon, I went to my mother's.  

"My computers don't work," she said.  I could guess what happened.  Apple updated the operating system.  Every time they do that, my mother gets lost in the changes, so I go in and fix it back to what it was.  This time, however, she said there were a lot of pop ups on the screen asking for her user id or her password.  Uh-oh.  I looked at her desktop.  Her mail wouldn't work.  I went in and tried fixing it for a long while.  SMPTE vs POP--what the fuck do I know?  Eventually, though, she could receive mail but not send it.  I got wore out and had to give up for the moment.  Then I went to her laptop.  Done.  One of the four foot fluorescent bulbs was out in the garage. I tried a couple bulbs that we had leftover from the last fiasco and lo and behold, one of them worked.  Then we sat.  

"I've gotta go, ma.  I need to get groceries for dinner."

It was six when I got to the store.  I was going to cook, but it was getting late, so I had another idea.  I would get half a cooked chicken and pair it with some Aimee's frozen brown rice/black-eyed peas/vegetable things.  Oh. . . and some packaged cooked beets.  

As I approached the prepared food counter, I saw a tall, fairly attractive woman talking to the woman who was preparing her sub sandwich.  She had tattoos all over and two mismatched sandals.  She was waving her hands and sounded a little manic.  But as I say, she was kind of attractive, so I kept looking at her.  Then I noticed her legs.  Oh, shit!

"Hey lady. . . I recognize those tats."

Sure as shitting, it was Bo.  We had "dated" back in 2001 for awhile.  I was teaching a course in The Personal Essay at Country Club College at the time, and when class let out, I would stroll over to the sushi place on the Boulevard to get some dinner.  She was a waitress there, six feet tall, leggy, attractive.  She was the first woman I had ever seen with tats.  Later I would find out she was pretty famous in town.  She dated the tall boy who wrote the culture column for the city's newspaper.  That was when my own hometown was the center of the electronic music scene.  Q was a nascent D.J. then, and friends with many who would become famous.  The whole scene was. . . well, I really shouldn't try to say.  I wasn't part of that crowd, and as Jimmy Buffet said, "Don't try to describe a Kiss concert if you haven't seen one."

Yea. 

But she was royalty there and a well-known figure about town.  One day I heard two fellows talking about the big blonde at the gym with the crazy leg tattoos.  She was striking.  

I'll back the fuck up on this story later.  I have a bunch of things I'm wanting to write, so the next few days may be a mishmashed hodgepodge of non-intersecting stories.  Intersectionality, of course, is a hip term in Progressive Academics, so I'll try my best.  

As you can see in this pic, the rest of her skin was clear and clean but for the two red stars on her forearms outlined spectacularly in blue.  But that is not how her skin looks now.  He skin is inked all the way up including her neck.  Her life has taken some turns.  But again. . . I may get to that.  

When I said, "I recognize those tats," pointing to her legs, she turned to face me.  

"Oh, my God." 

She walked toward me. 

"Give me a hug!"

She'd always been taller than I, but now she fairly dwarfed me.  I must be shrinking.  

"How are you doing?" she asked.  

"Oh. . . I'm fine," I lied.  "And you?"

"Not so good.  My ex is taking me to court."  

She shook her head and waved her wrapped sub in the air.  

"I've got someone fucking with my car.  I don't know.  I don't like to leave it for very long."

O.K.  This was getting weird.  

"So I've got to go."  She pulled out her phone.  "What's your number?"

Oh, shit. . . what could I say?  I could hear Tennessee saying, "He denied her like Peter denied Christ."  I didn't want to give her my number, but we had been intimate.  She had been lovely.  We had shared things.  

So I said it and watched her punch it into her phone.

"O.K." she said.  "I've got to run."  She hugged me again and I said, "It is good to see you," and turned to leave.  

As she walked away, I heard her say in a low voice as if in an aside, "Hot Teacher." 

A spark ran up my spine.  I'd forgotten that is what she used to call me.  Hot Teacher.  Huh.  That felt alright.  

I shopped and got my groceries looking about me as I did.  And when I checked out and left the store, I fairly scoured the parking lot as I walked to my car.  After I loaded my groceries, I checked my phone.  I had a call from an unknown number.  Ah. . . she had called to check that I had been honest and true.  

"Now what?" I thought.  "What madness am I in for now?"

When I got home, I put away the groceries and opened an Athletic non-alcohol beer.  I lit a cigar and went to the deck to think.  It is important, I hold, to put the day into some sort of narrative order, to connect the dots, to try to find some pattern or perceived meaning to one's living in the void.  What I found myself thinking about was that period between my divorce and meeting the tenant.  Those were wild and wonderful times.  I'd fallen in love rather quickly after my divorce, a love that would haunt me, but when she left town. . . well, that is a whole other chapter.  As has always been the case, though, her leaving me was a highway to her unbridled success.  It seems to be the universal case.  Except for the girl with the Betty Page tattoo.  But that's a long story and will have to be told in parts.  

I think, though, that the period after my divorce was the most vivid time of my life.  

I went in and prepared my quick dinner.  It was as healthy a meal I didn't cook as was possible, and it was good, too.  Just as I finished, my phone rang.  It startled me.  Was it her?  What was she going to want?

It was my mother.  

"My t.v. won't work.  I can turn it on, but I can't change the channels.  I called the cable company and they rebooted it but it still wont' work.  They said they would have to send somebody out to the house tomorrow.  So I'm stuck for tonight.  Just my luck.  I guess I will read.  It has been a bad day.  I don't have any luck.  I just wanted to tell you, anyway."

What she meant was she needed to tell me.  I know the feeling.  She may have been waiting for me to say I'd come over and have a look.  Rather. . . .

"Maybe it is the batteries in the remote."

"No.  I changed them."

"Did you unplug the router for a minute and then plug it back in."

"They rebooted my stuff remotely."

"Yes, but they didn't unplug it.  Unplug it and wait a minute before you plug it back in, then call me back."

"Alright," she said in a despondent voice.  

She didn't call back, so I called her.  

"Did you unplug it?"

"I don't know which one it is. There are so many things plugged in.  I unplugged something."

"And. . . ."

"It still doesn't work."

"O.K.  I guess you will have to wait on the cable people."

In five minutes the phone rang again.  

"It is working now," she said.  "I unplugged it and plugged it back in and it worked."

"Well good."

"Now I'll have to call the cable company and let them know," she said with irritation. 

"That would be a good idea.  But I'm glad you got it working.  I'll talk to you later."

Yup. It is like that.  Everything is a mystery, now, that someone needs to figure out.  

Maybe I'll get back to the narrative tomorrow, but I think it might take more than one day.  And somehow, I will need to complain about my contemporaneous life, too.  While I can.

"I just wanted to tell you."

Yea.  A plaintive cry into the blackness of the blogosphere.  Brilliant.  Just fucking brilliant.  

A Tale Best Untold

"i better see you here for my last shift!!"

I took my mother to therapy yesterday.  The therapist did an evaluation and said my mother had made improvements in mobility and strength and was good to end her sessions.  With great uncertainty, my mother said, "O.K."  

When we got back to her house, she said, "I bet you feel like you've been cut free."  I didn't say anything.  Cut free from what?  Whether we go to therapy or not, I will still be there every day.  I'm not "free" of anything.  I don't think she gets that.  My days are broken awkwardly in two or sometimes maybe three.  My life is not my own.  I can't go anywhere.  My freedom consists of going to the gym, taking soaks and showers, and maybe, if I am fortunate, taking naps.  My life is a prison of concern and care.  I'm not complaining. . . . 

I'm complaining.  

I have invitations to go places.  T wants to fly me up to see his mountain homes.  I am wanted in rural midwestern towns, L.A. Yosemite, Miami.  I want to go back to Mexico.  My friends are all going to Japan.  I had to take a pass.  

I will soon be in the same condition as my mother.  I just read a report of a new study on the factors increasing your chances of getting dementia.  I have ten of the twelve.  

A guy at the gym asked me how my mother was doing.  He said his buddy was in the same situation as I.  He was taking care of his 99 year old mother with dementia.  The doctor said to him one day, "I have some bad news."  The bad news was her blood work and vitals were good.  "She may never die," he said.  

The boys were doing another happy hour last night.  I told them I would be late if I came at all.  I had to do things with my mother.  As six o'clock approached, I was sitting in the open garage with my mother in a lounger.  I'd fallen asleep.  I really didn't feel well.  

"I'm going to go meet the fellows," I said.  

"Don't leave me," she whined in a faux-ironic voice.  It isn't fake, though.  It isn't funny, and one day I'm sure I'll snap.  I'm just worn the fuck completely and totally down.  Computers, phones. . . everything has become a mystery to her.  Two days ago, she called me to tell me her dryer wouldn't work.  A bit later, she called me to tell me she fixed it.  The door wasn't shut right.  Both of these were messages she left, so I called her back.  No answer on either her home phone or cell.  Later, I was taking a nap.  I was woken up by the tenant yelling for me.  She has a key and had come into the house.  

"What the fuck!"

"Your mother is on the phone.  She said she's been trying to call you and can't get hold of you.  She's worried."

Stress is a factor.  So is high blood pressure.  Stress causes high blood pressure.  My bp is already unmanageable.  Social isolation.  Loneliness.  Being overweight.  Sleep apnea.  Daily fatigue.  I'm certain my new blood test will show I've developed new indicators.  Cholesterol, maybe.  

"Do you ever feel doubt about your self-worth?"

"Oh. . . fuck no!  I'm a freaking miracle."

This was the question/answer period at the doctor's, written, of course, part of the required psyche questioning the feds have decided to plague us with every time we get a physical.  

If they add "driving an old beater car" to the list, I'm sure I'm done for.  

So. . . I showed up late to the show.  We were going to go to my new favorite place on the Boulevard, but once again, it was closed off for another private party.  It isn't my favorite place anymore.  The boys had moved down the street to my buddy's new joint, a wine, beer, and food bar.  Six fellows were sitting at a table, an empty seat for me.  It was the BBC.  T.  Alain.  Alain's buddy.  The shock jock and his buddy.  And a new addition, a retired federal court judge.  

Greetings.  

"I've told my buddy all about you," said the shock jock.  "I've told him stories."

"There are stories?"

"Oh, yea.  I told him about Gorgeious C.S." 

This was a reference to the last time we were at this place on opening night.  Not bad.  

"Yea. . . I might have been once long ago," I said to his buddy.  

The waitress came over, all sweet eyes and bright smile.  She was a confident sort, the kind who looked at people directly.  

"Hi.  Can I bring you something?"

The boys were only being "helpful."  

"Uh. . . I'm going to need a moment."  

She laid a hand on my shoulder and said, "Sure.  I'll come back in a minute."

The place was packed to the ceiling.  The walls are brick, the floor concrete, and there is no baffling of the noise.  The place looks nice, all exotic stuff from the far east, but it is impossible to hear anyone speak.  Since my surgeries after the accident, my vocal cords are shot, and when I try to speak over the room noise, they just won't.  It is embarrassing, so I mostly sit, listen, and nod.  

"What's up, Wild Man?  Why are you so quiet?  Are you being grumpy?"

I just pointed to my ears.  "Too loud."

Everyone agreed.  It is not a place for intimacy.  

I looked around the room.  It was an old village crowd.  Everywhere I turned, I was looking into the town's history.  Everyone was someone.  Here was the wife of the dead citrus tycoon.  There was her grown daughter.  The fellow who owns the BMW dealership.  A lawyer stopped to talk to the judge.  He'd been appointed to the State's Space Board.  The governor. . . blah, blah, blah.  

The waitress came back.  The draft beer choices were not to my liking.  

"What are you drinking?" I asked T.  The place didn't have a liquor license, so we were limited.  I really wanted a cocktail.  

"Stella," he said. 

"O.K.  I'll settle for that."

When she brought it, everyone was ready to order.  No two people ordered the same thing.  Crab cakes.  A pressed duck sandwich.  Flatbread.  A High Flying Cuban.  Mahi on a bun.  I got the Fig and Brie Burger.  It was absolutely not what I wanted, but whatever.  

The food came, then the owner.  

"C.S.!" he said shaking hands.  I've known him for years, back when his band used to open for mine.  

"Jake," I said, "your waitress is top notch.  She is wonderful."

He nodded in approval.  

The shock jock told him the story of "Gorgeous C.S." from the opening night.  I am embarrassed and flattered at the same time.  I DO like him telling it, though, because it pisses off the other boys who all think they are Lotharios.  

"Yup," said Jake, "he is a village legend." 

O.K.  Fuck you.  I enjoy it.  And there is more to come, so give me a break.  It is all I have.  

When the waitress came back, I told her I gave her a sterling revue to the owner.  

"Where do you go to school?" I chanced.  

"I just finished taking my real estate course and I'm waiting for the results from the state exam," she said.  

T began the whole "Shaman" thing and the conversation turned to smoke.  She nodded and grinned.  

"He's got a freezer full of mushrooms," he said.  

"Oh, no. . . I can't do mushrooms."

"Why?" I asked.  

"I did them once and had a bad five hours."

"Me, too!  I was up in the middle of the night screaming into a pillow."

"Yes!  It is horrible."

"I know.  Everybody else is going, 'this is fun.'  So I tried them again.  Same thing."

"Me, too," she said with sparkling eyes and I could feel the bond growing between us.  I felt the heat as she leaned close to me.  We were seriously vibing.  

When she walked away, I said to Alain, "She can be our new waitress now that Small Hands is leaving."

"Yea, but this is not the place." 

"I know.  What are we going to do?"

A good waitress knows how to work a crowd, and this one had it perfected.  She brought the non-draft beers to the table to pour in front of the customer.  

"Why do you bring the bottle to the table?" I asked.  

"I was taught that it was proper.  It seems fresher, and the customer can be certain what they are getting.  I'm the only one here who does that," she said, "but I think it makes a difference."

It sure was going to with this crowd.  When the bill came, four of us threw our cards down.  The judge and Alain's friend had already left, and they left wads of cash.  When she split the check and gave me mine, I asked, "Is this already split?"  I'd had a burger and a beer and my share was $120 before tip.  I don't know what happened to the wad of cash, but I suspected it was going to the waitress.  But I didn't know, so my tip was "plus "25%."  

Not good.  I am unemployed and a pauper.  

As we got up to leave, the boys were all about saying goodbye.  It took me a minute more to get up, and as the boys headed to the sidewalk, the waitress touched my arm, looked me dead in the eye, smiled, and said, "I hope to see you again."  I mean. . . she had it down.  She was really good.  

It was a Wednesday night, but the sidewalk was packed as far as you could see.  

"WTF?" I said.  "It's a Wednesday.  What's going on?"

"Nobody works in this town," Alain said.  

Just then a woman got up from a sidewalk table, came over, and gave me a hug.  It was my across the street neighbor's ex-wife, the fellow who was dumped by the sixty-something year old woman.  His ex is much younger.

"Hiiiii," she said.  "It's good to see you.  I'm moving to Atlanta," she said.  "I met a man at a Solar Bears game and got married a couple weeks ago," she cooed in her very southern accent.  

"Oh. . . did you mean to?"

"Ha-ha. . . yes!  I'm very happy."

Just then, I felt two arms wrap around my neck from behind.  I hoped it was the waitress.  

It was T.

"What's up, dad?"

This is his usual schtick whenever a woman is around.  He introduced himself.  

"Hi.  I've known C.S. for a long time.  We used to be neighbors." 

"Well, enjoy your new adventure," I said.  "Congratulations."

The boys were off to say so long to Small Hands.  I'd already had the text.  There was no not going, "But I'm only having one," I said.  

The shock jock and his buddy rode with me, the shock jock telling stories about The Shaman the entire ride.  It was just a few blocks to the Irish pub, and we drove down the Boulevard.  

"What the fuck has happened?  I've never seen so many people out midweek."

When we got the pub, the parking lot was full.  

"I'll drop you guys off and try to find a place to park."

"No way.  We're going with you."

The boys always do this because there is a chance I'll just go home.  

"Hurry up, though, or I'm going to have to piss on your seat."

"Just get out."

"No!"

I decided to park in a No Parking zone.  The shock jock's buddy tore the sign down.  

"It'll be o.k." he said as he threw it over the fence.  

When we walked in, Alain and T were already drinking at the bar. 

"There are no tables," they said.  

Small Hands passed by me a couple times without notice.  

"What's up with that?" asked T.  "She's giving you the cold shoulder."

I just shrugged and ordered a Guiness from the barkeep.  

"I thought you wanted a whiskey," yelled Alain.

"Shit.  I did.  I forgot." 

Just then, two arms snaked around my neck from behind.  There was a soft whisper in my ear."

"You came."

"Of course," I said.  

T. was laughing.  

"I told her to ignore you when you got here."

"I didn't want to play along," she said.  "I honestly didn't see you sitting here." 

T had taken up with an off-duty waitress, a Melungeon who, as it turned out, was from the same Tennessee town as he.  Small Hands had shown her the photos I had taken of her already, and she said she wanted me to do some pictures of her, too.  I hadn't followed up for a couple of reasons.  But T was all over her.  

"She wants you to make some pictures of her," he said.  

"I know.  Don't encourage it."

"No. . . no. . . you've got to do this for me.  You are going to."

"I want to take photos of the barmaid," I said.  She was a severely pretty woman with incredible cheekbones and jet black hair cut in a 1920's bob.  

"O.K.  I'll set that up.  Let me work on it.  But you are going to take pictures of her." 

Small hands came to tell us she had a table for us in the back room.  It turned out to be for two.  The room was packed with college kids, but somehow five of us squeezed in.  The shock jock's buddy had to go.  

"He really liked you," the shock jock said.  

I just looked at him.

"He said The Shaman was really cool."

"I didn't do anything."

"You just are, dude." 

As often happens, he knew one of the kids at the table behind us.  He always knows someone.  So he turned around and started doing a bit with the kids.  I stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to see if I can move the car," I said. 

Then he turned to the college table.  "This guy's really cool," he said.  "How old do you think he is?"

"Fuck you," I said as I limped away.  

The parking lot was still full, but my car hadn't been towed.  

When I got back, T went to smoke a little boo with the Melungeon.  She was already pretty looped.  

Alain looked around and talked about the girls in the room.  He was infatuated with a girl who had curly hair.  She looked like many of the girls I went to college with, a little bit of a hippie.  

"I bet she wears patchouli," I opined.  "You've got enough money.  Go over and ask her if she has ever smelled the sea breeze blowing ashore on the coast of Zanzibar."

"That' corny enough it might work.  I wish my wife would die," he laughed.  "Just kidding.  It's an old joke."

"I think this generation is pretty transactional," I said.  "No judgement." 

When T and the Melungeon came back, she said she wanted me to take some photos of her.  Oh, shit.  I'd leave that hanging.  

"O.K. boys, I'm out."

So were T and the Melungeon.  

"Did you two figure out if you are related?" I smirked.  

"They probably are," chimed Alain.  "They are from Tennessee.  The family tree there only has one branch.  It goes straight up."

"She is Native American and Black, and so am I," T said.  "Probably."

Alain and the shock jock stayed.  They always stayed.  

"Now things will pick up," Alain cried.  "Things always start happening when The Shaman leaves."

This is true.  

"Where are you going?" asked Small Hands.  

"I'm out," I said.  She put her hands around my neck.  

"Keep in touch," I said.  

"I'll ALWAYS stay in touch with you.  You're the best.  Listen, I've been super busy with finishing school, figuring out where I'm going to live, what I'm going to do. . . so don't be mad that I haven't been reaching out. . . . "

"I've never been mad.  Do you think I was mad?  Look," I said motioning to her then to me with my eyes.  "I have to be careful.  I'm not going to be a creeper."

"No, no, no. . . you could never be like that.  You're the best."

 Blah blah blah. . . .  

"Look, I'll be coming back.  When I go home, I'm going to work out and get into shape.  I've started a business.  I'm selling vintage things, and I am picking up a bunch of stuff for us.  When I come back we'll make some pictures.  O.K.?"

"Sure," I said.  

"I love the stuff you send me, so please. . . . "

Now this is getting stupid, I know, but it is true and all I've got.  I'll be back to watching television and making dinners for my mother now, and there will be doctors appointments and house projects and the rest of what I've had for most of the last five years. . . so give me this.  

I have a plan to quit drinking again.  I've put some of the weight I lost back on, but not all of it, and I think I can reach my goal weight if I stop again.  I drink too much.  It is one of the indicators for dementia, too, along with the body fat, snoring, and blood pressure shit.  Not to mention social isolation and loneliness.  I'm not the "Gorgeous" man I used to be, and I actually never was.  There are plenty of gorgeous people.  I see them every day.  And I'm telling you. . . it ain't me, babe.  

But I sometimes can be smart and sometimes entertaining.  

Just not today.  I got a little pick-me-up last night and thought I might exploit it.  I know a lot of you are gonna be hating on me. . . but you should indulge me a bit.  Just give me a break.  I need it.  I REALLY need a break.  

Now I'll let you go back to your happy lives, my beautiful friends.  I have to get this day going so I can get over to my mother's.  The sun is shining.  The air is warm.  The world is turning 'round without me.  

Myth

I'm a great mythologizer.  That's what I do.  I have little interest in "realism."  As if.  Nobody knows what is real or what is true.  No, I prefer candlelight and romance and the illusions we allow ourselves.  If you want realism, read or watch "The Iceman Cometh" (link).  That will teach you what happens when you strip a person of their self-illusions.  

You will never see yourself as others do.  It would be horrible.  Don't even try.  

A couple years ago, when I first went out with the Billionaire Boys, we went at the end of the night at the Irish pub.  Our waitress was young and cute and the boys were being boys, not in the Cosby/Wienstein/Trumpish way, but a bit cantankerous nonetheless.  We had a large table in the backroom on a quiet night and we were her only table, so she stayed close.  There was a lot of drink and food orders going on and she was very attentive.  So were the boys and they included her in our table conversations.  She was a bit pop-eyed but good-natured about it all.  In a little while, a fellow showed up and sat with her at a table, and when she came back, I said, "Were you afraid and called your boyfriend?"

"He's NOT my boyfriend," she said.  "He's just a friend." 

And the table sent them drinks.  And soon, across the room, the fellow was part of the conversation.  He was young and not up to trading barbs with the boys, but they had him laughing.  

This went on for a good while, but the evening was getting late and we called for the check.  The car guy picked up the tab for the table and as is his way, gave her a very good tip.  As did the other fellows.  As we were finishing our drinks, I saw her surreptitiously counting out the cash wide-eyed with her friend.  She probably made more in that hour or so than she had ever made in a week working there.  

On the way out, I went over to give a soft apology for the night and tell her she had been a really good sport, but when I shook her hand, a cold shock went through me.  My knees fairly buckled.  She had the smallest hand I'd ever shaken.  It was a baby's hand.  It was supernaturally small.  

So it seemed.  

In the parking lot as the group was breaking up, I asked if anyone else had shook her hand.  

"Holy fuck, you guys. . . you have to.  I thought I was going to faint!"

And after that she was known among the group as Small Hands.  And at the end of every happy hour outing, someone would say, "Let's go see Small Hands and have the last one."  They were dying to shake her hand and see if it was true.  

Many nights, I begged off and didn't go for the last one.  I don't really like the pub and I am an early evening boy.  But when I wouldn't go, they would send photos of her and say she wanted to know where The Shaman was.  I called bullshit on this, then my phone would ring and it would be her.  

"You'd better get down here now," she'd say.  But I always knew she was playing to the crowd.  She would be well compensated.  

T, however, showed her some of my photos and he said she wanted me to photograph her.  I called bullshit on this, but he sent me her phone number.  I didn't know what to do, but I didn't want to be rude, so in a couple of days, I sent her a message saying just that, but. . . . 

It turned out that she really did, and so for the first time in many, many years. . . well, if you read here, you already know the story.  

I haven't been in the pub for probably six months, though the boys go once in awhile.  She texts me pictures of her weekend outings and trips out of town, and last night this. 

hi, wanted to share some graduation pictures!!

Oh, my, I thought, our little girl is all grown up.  

Congratulations. Now what?  On to the Great Highway of Life. . . and The Bumpy Road to Love.

She has one last shift at the pub, she said, then she is moving back to Miami.  

I'll tell the boys.

They all plan on going in to say goodbye to Little Hands.  My mythological creation.  I hope she never finds out.  

I'm sure we'll keep in touch for awhile after she moves, but you know how that goes.  All things drift into memory.  One door closes and another door opens.  

But, you know. . . she'll/we'll always have the pictures.  And that, my friends, is legacy stuff.  

Here's a sample of the kind of music she'd send me mornings when she was up after a late night, some little bebop thing to get her going.  Now really, who at twenty-one listens to such things?  Cool kid.  Yup. She'll be alright.  

Speculation and Fact

Vance killed the Pope.  It is a widely accepted theory.  They shook hands.  "Vance and the Poison Ring."  Coming this fall on Netflix.  

Trump wants to give every woman who has a baby $5,000.  Now that's one way to cut down on government spending.  Would you have a baby for $5,000?  Do you know how far that would go in raising the child?  Unless. . . you planned on selling it in Mexico for its adrenal glands.  Adrenochrome use in the White House, it is said, has become very, very popular.  Most of those people had never heard of the drug until the whole Hillary/Pizza Parlor scandal.  Now, however, they have seen the crazy lights.  

Obviously people haven't thought the whole big money giveaway through.  Look.  If everyone in the U.S. gave me just one dollar, I'd be a $340,000,000 millionaire.  I could do a lot with that money.  But, let's say Musk (or the government) gave everyone in the U.S. one dollar. . . well, you get the idea.  That's how government works.  Collect a little from a lot of people and you can do big things.  Giving away some money to a lot of people accomplishes nothing.  

Hi honey! Just wanted to let you know what the US military is doing shortly. We're flying to Yemen to bomb some anti-aircraft artillery.  By the way, what’s for dinner?  Chicken or pasta?

Nothing to see here.  

Back to religion.  Do you know what the richest religious group is?  Oh, you probably guessed wrong.  You thought it was the Catholic Church, didn't you?  It would seem to make sense.  But if you thought that, you were wrong.  The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints holds almost three hundred billion dollars in assets.  

Cha-Ching!

You probably know them as "The Mormons."  But you probably don't know any Mormons, do you?  That's because there are not so many of them, nothing like the Catholic Church, or, as it was once known, simply, "The Church."  If you divided up the holdings of the Catholic Church among its members, it would be like giving everyone a dollar.  But. . . if you divided up the Mormon Church's holding among its members--and you will not believe me, so look it up--everyone would get $1.5 million!  

Now that we have that straight, you'll need to ponder the whole Latter-day Saints thing.  What is that?

But we'll leave that for another time.  

I slept long and late and have much to do, so I'll leave you to discuss all this among yourselves.  When we meet next time, I expect each of you to be ready to write on one of the chosen topics.  Fifty minute time limit.  500 words.  Formal essay.  

Until then. . . . 

Nothing to Tell

It's old.  It's bright.  It's white.  It's my view of the kitchen.  I don't know.  I just like it.  It is a little vision of domestic bliss. 

I have nothing to tell you today.  I went to dinner with my mother at her neighbors in the afternoon.  It was fine.  I did get a text from a girl promoting her visual charms.  Other than that, the day is a blank.  

I go to the doc today for my annual.  What fresh hell will this bring?  

The day is grey.  I am sad.  

That's not even good conversation. 

It's Four Twenty All Day

For years, I've been sending those scary, horrible Easter images to friends.  Now everyone I know is doing it, so. . . . 

My mother and I are supposed to go to her across the street neighbors' house for Easter dinner at four.  My mother, however, has not been feeling well and said she may not be able to attend.  She feels she has some sickness.  I have had it, too, something long and vague.  Just an achey tiredness without fever and a sort of anxiety/depression about it.  It feels like a "sit and die" syndrome.  It could be what was originally called "Spring Fever," not the kind you get in college but the other, the malady.  Except we don't have fevers.  

So Easter is up in the air.  

I did exactly what I have been doing on lovely Saturdays yesterday.  I stayed home, stayed inside.  I thought to walk, but nope.  I sat and read and worked on pictures.  Around one o'clock, though, I realized I hadn't eaten, so. . . . 

Yup. I did that.  And I ate it in the car like it was the 1960s.  I enjoyed it.  But I have been eating like shit this week and I have my annual physical on Monday.  My bloodwork is bound to come back horrible, especially if I eat the ham and fixings at my mother's neighbors' house tonight.  But I don't care anymore. Fuck it.  What is the doctor going to do, put me in time out?  

But of course I do worry.  I worry far too much.  It stresses me out, wears me down.  As I care for my mother and think about the inevitable.  

I am down more than I am up now, and it is overwhelming me.  I live in a state of suspended catatonia.  I don't have a good bone in my body.  

"Oh, man. . . cry me a river."

Yea, I know.  But sometimes I need to drop the facade.  Are you thinking you don't live behind facades?  Ha!  More than I do, my friend.  I'll admit it.  How about you?  

Wow.  This is not good Easter talk.  Last night I did laugh.  I haven't laughed like that for a very long time.  I watched this (link).  The guy just riffs for over twenty minutes.  I needed the laugh.  

But I'm not laughing this morning.  I think I'll go back to bed.  I'm pretty sure the Easter Bunny didn't bring me a basket of eggs and chocolates.  Eggs are far too expensive, and I read that people are dyeing potatoes instead.

But I'll not get even that, I suspect, let alone good, rich chocolate.  I'd settle for a simple love letter, really.  

C.C. once told me that if I felt lonely, I could always go to church.  "You don't have to believe," he said.  "They won't kick you out."  There are a fair number of churches just off the Boulevard where the upper crust "worship."  I don't think they are seriously religious, these churches, but more social, places where peers can meet.  Those churches will be hopping today with men in suits and women in their Easter finery.  Maybe I will take my usual Sunday morning walk and see.  It might cheer me up.  

RICHMOND — School officials in one part of the Lone Star State are no fans of the lone nipple on the Virginia state flag, so they have nixed an online lesson that included a picture of the banner.

Virginia’s flag and state seal feature Virtus, the Roman goddess of virtue, whose name suggests a buttoned-down gal but whose toga tells another story — draped so low on her left that one breast is fully out there for God Almighty and everybody else to see.
Some people call that art. The Lamar Consolidated Independent School District, in fast-growing territory west of Houston, calls it “frontal nudity” — something banned from its elementary school materials.

Lamar’s school board voted 5-1 in November to update its library materials policy, which included adding this provision: “No material in elementary school libraries shall include visual depictions or illustrations of frontal nudity.”

A case of early 20th-century gender confusion led to the breast baring in the first place. In 1901, Secretary of the Commonwealth D.Q. Eggleston complained that Virtus “looked more like a man than a woman and wanted to correct it. He instructed designers to add the breast to clarify her sex,” the Virginian-Pilot reported in a 2023 deep dive into how Virginia wound up with the only state flag boasting an exposed nipple.

Monsters

 

In memory, the depiction of rabbits is cute and cuddly while the depiction of hares is mischievous if not downright evil.  

OK.  I just looked it up.  Hares are much different from rabbits.  They lope rather than hop.  They are born precocial meaning they are fully formed with open eyes.  Rabbits eat softer foods like leaves and shoots whereas hares eat harder things like bark and twigs.  Hares are solitary while rabbits are social and live in groups.  Hares are larger than rabbits and don't burrow.  And finally, rabbits have been domesticated while hares have not.  

Bugs Bunny--not a rabbit.  Bugs is a hare.  

Onward.

I drove across town yesterday to see if the plastics place could make a replacement for the light cover I broke changing my mother's bulbs.  It was closed.  There was a phone number on the door, so I called it.  A man answered right away. 

"Hi.  I'm sitting outside your shop, but the sign says you are closed."

"Yes, we're closed for Good Friday."

"Oh."  

Just the start of another shitty day.  

I stopped at Chick-fil-A for lunch.  That was pretty much a mistake, too.  Not much was turning out to be good about Friday.  

Now here's a horror I shouldn't share.  It's not my fault, but my house has been invaded by flies.  They appear on my kitchen windows.  Nowhere else in the house, just there.  They are slow and easy to swat.  I'll look and there will be three or four of them.  They are apparently retarded, too, because they don't fly away after I kill one of them.  They just sit and wait.  I think I've killed them all, but later there will be three of four more.  WTF?  This has been going on for days.  They appear nowhere else in the house.  I never see them fly.  I feel gross, you know?  But I swear, I haven't done anything.  It is just more of the plague that has been cast upon me.  

So I soaked and showered and napped and went to my mother's.  When I got there, she was listening to something from Facebook, I'm sure, about gut health.  Oh, man. . . Facebook is her source for everything.

"Listen carefully, mom, and hear what they are saying.  These things can be or may be beneficial to gut health.  Whatever.  I'm tired of it all.  Here are twenty seven foods you should eat every day.  You need to get in your 10,000 steps and meditate for twenty minutes, but be sure to do some resistance training  and of course yoga to maintain flexibility.  And supplements?  Twelve supplements everyone over forty should consider.  If you get fat, it is because you don't eat right.  They should just tell you the reason you put on weight, develop high blood pressure, get type 2 diabetes, etc.  It is because you got old.  But they want to guilt you for everything that goes wrong.  He got cancer because he ate pork and smoked.  His liver was shot from drinking.  But you know, they ate and drank and smoked for thirty years and were fine because they were young.  Then they got old and the shit got 'em.  Fuck it.  They should just tell you the truth.  Disease is for the old."

She looked at me.  I was pretty sure she didn't get a thing I said.  But then she said, "I sure got old."

I have my annual check up with my shitty doc on Monday.  I don't care anymore.  No one lives forever, and the end is never fun.  What can one hope for.  

"Oh. . . he had such a beautiful death."

Nope.  You end up like the Pope.  

It was Friday night.  

"O.K.  Party, mom."

Our joke.  I tend to shut down and hunker at home on the weekends.  I think it was Covid that did it.  Many of my habits changed then.  I wash my hands now, for instance.  I never used to wash my hands but I sure do now.  I don't even like touching public tabletops.  So maybe my weekend home habits were born out of that.  I don't know, but I rarely go out on the weekends anymore.  

I was, however, looking forward to a Campari and cheroot on the deck.  But first, I stopped at the grocers to get ingredients for the Cantonese garlic noodle bowl I was going to make for dinner.  I got the recipe that morning from The New York Times.  

As I sat on the deck, the tenant stopped by.  She was going to the Film Festival of which she is a part.  Ph.D. in film studies, she's a hot shit.  She said Mia Farrow was speaking.  

"Booo, Boooo, Boooooo," I roared.  

"Yea.  Maybe she'll get heckled."

"Nope.  Not here.  This is not a Woody Allen town.  Q wants you to ask her what her brother went to prison for."

The brother of movie star Mia Farrow will spend the next 10 years in prison for sexually abusing two boys in Maryland.

John Charles Villiers-Farrow, 67, was sentenced Monday to 25 years in prison, with 15 years suspended.

Villiers-Farrow entered an Alford plea in July to two counts of child abuse in the molestation of two 10-year-old boys who were his neighbors in Anne Arundel County, Md., in 2002.

Huh.  I guess he's out now.  Served seven years and got paroled for three.  

I'll guess, though, that no one brought it up.  

I went in to make my Friday party meal.  It took more effort than I had counted on.  I fried some teriyaki tofu and an egg to put on top.  I plated it and took it outside.  

Friday night dinner for one.  I did alright.  It was pretty good.  I'd change a few things if I made it again, but yea. . . it was a little party.  

A package came as I ate.  A big box from Pottery Barn.  Tableware.  I bought the set I have now in the 1990s.  PB White.  They are a classic. . . so much so, Pottery Barn doesn't sell the anymore.  I love them, but they are almost all chipped now, so I ordered the PB Classic Rim.  After dinner, I opened them.  Not really what I wanted.  They are too white.  There are different kinds of whiteness.  If you don't know, you must read "In Praise of Shadows" (link).  The old plates were a subtle white, a pleasant white, a beautiful white.  

Selavy.  

I put the new plates along with the mess from dinner in the dishwasher.  As is tradition, of course, I poured myself a scotch.  

The sun went down.  It was 8:30.  I put on music.  Fucking music.  

Early bed.  I wear a mouthpiece now to counter my snoring.  Apnea.  It will kill me, they say.  Now.  I have always snored, maybe apnea.  It doesn't kill you when you are young.  Like everything else.  It waits.  

Sleepless nights in your bed
All these thoughts dance around in my head
Close your eyes count the blessings[?] go to sleep;

Seein shadows on the wall
They come and go like memories from long ago
Don't chase 'em down, let them be - go back to sleep;

There are monsters under your bed
I hear them laughing, feel them shakin' the bed
I grab your hand, you hold me tight until they're gone
You hold me close with all your might all night long;

Morning comes and you are gone
Your pillow's cold and once again im all alone
Why did you leave or was this night just a dream?

Shadows float back in the room
My curtains' drawn the monsters come back far to soon
I close my eyes and wait for you to rescue me
I close them tight and try to drift back to my dream;

The Empty Hollow

It is five o'clock.  I've been up since four.  Bad night.  I was sleeping o.k. until three, then the gremlins decided to visit.  Went right up into my skull.  Ugly little buggers.  Wouldn't leave me alone.  So. . . what else could I do?  Maybe I'll go back to bed with sunrise.  

But wait--I need to back up all the way to yesterday morning.  I'd been up for awhile and was in the bathroom when I heard a knocking on the front door.  This couldn't be something good, I thought.  Maybe they would just go away.  But the knocking continued.  When I went to the door, I saw my across the street neighbor.  Now what?

"Do you know whose car this is?"

He was talking about the black Mercedes G Wagon that had been parked in front of his house since the prior morning.  

"Nope."

He turned toward the car.  

"It's blocking my mailbox."

"I can see that.  It looks like it broke down.  I don't think it belongs to any of the construction workers."

I was referring to the multimillion dollar mansion going up next door to him.  

"Hell," I said, "maybe my tenant had someone stay over."

"No.  He drives a red Volt," he said dismissively.  "This is an expensive car."

"Maybe she traded up."

He laughed.  

"What do you think I should do?"

"You could call the police.  They might give it a ticket, but I don't think they will tow it.  Maybe wait a day."

Long pause.  He had turned facing his house.  He just stood there for a bit.  

"I've been going through some mental issues," he said.  

Uh-oh.  

"I broke up with Karen.  We've been dating for ten years now.  Off and on.  Every couple of years we break up, then we get back together.  But she's a MAGA nut.  I just couldn't take it anymore."

What could I say.  

"Wow."

"I started seeing another woman.  I really liked her.  A lot.  So I just laid it on her."

He looked at me.  I had no idea what "laid it on her" meant.  

"She quit coming around so much, so I asked her what was going on, and she said that she couldn't get over the age thing."

He is the same age as I am, and I asked, "How old was she?" expecting her to be very young.  

"In her sixties."

"What!?!?  What the fuck is SHE talking about," I said with a laugh.  He didn't.  

"You know my son is moving away to do his residency in Boston.  My daughter is moving, too.  It is the first time I felt my age."

"Well. . . that's a lot of change."

He looked at me with pleading eyes.  He thought, I guess, that I understood.  

"Yea, it is a lot at once."

The conversation went on for awhile.  He was going to rent a place in Colorado for a couple months this summer.  He was going back on a dating site.  Blah blah blah.  He has a lot of money, and I thought to tell him to tell the sixty year old he would give her all of it, that hell, he'd be eating gruel and shitting his pants soon, anyway.  But I didn't.  

"If I were going to make a change," I said, "I'd want to move into a dorm at Country Club College."

He's not much like me, and this moved him toward his home.  

In a few minutes, I got a text from him.  

"Look out your window.  Tow truck."

And sure as shittin' there was.  

I got ready for the gym.  It was later than usual.  The boys would probably be gone.  It was leg day.  That's funny to say in general.  Leg day.  But my knee has been killing me.  The last injection did no good.  Maybe I shouldn't work legs, I thought, but the thought was fleeting.  

After the gym, I had a hard time walking to the car.  "Maybe I should have skipped leg day."

I decided to take my car to the repair place my shock jock buddy has been touting.  My power steering is shot.  I didn't want to go, but I needed to.  When I got there, though, the place looked abandoned.  I walked into a shitty little office.  Sitting at a desk with his back to me was a huddled figure of a man.  He turned.

"Can I help you?"

"Hi.  Are you Jeff?"

"Yes, I'm Jeff." 

"My buddy (by name) told me I should bring my car to you.  My power steering is shot and he said you'd just fixed his, so. . . . "

He looked sad, lost.  

"I'm going through some mental stuff right now," he said.  

WTF?  

"My mechanic's wife had a stroke, and he's not here.  I have two engines to rebuild but. . . I'm just overwhelmed.  I manage the place, you know, talk to customers and do the analytics, but he does the mechanical work, and I don't. . . I can't do this all alone."

He launched into the whole story of the wife's stroke and of his concern about his mechanic, mostly about the work he wasn't doing.  He talked for a long time.  He, too, looked at me with pleading eyes.  He wasn't a young man.  

"Here's what I can do.  Let me get your information and I'll let you know when I can take a look at the car."  

We walked outside.  He took down my tag number and some numbers I didn't know were inside the car door, then he asked me to pop the hood and he looked at the steering mechanism and got down under the car and looked.  Then he said, "I'll need to do some diagnostics on it. . . I don't know when.  I'll call you and let you know." 

"Sure," I said.  "O.K.  Thanks."

WTF?

Later, I went to see my mother.  She was with her ninety-one year old neighbor.  My mother sat with that grin that lets me know she has no idea what is being said.  Once in awhile the neighbor would say something to her and my mother would look troubled and lean forward and say, "What?" and the neighbor would yell it again.  This went on for an hour before I said I needed to go.  I had a date with the boys, I said.  I was already late.  

I needed a drink.  We were going to my new favorite bar on the Boulevard, but when I got there, two of the fellows were sitting on a sidewalk bench outside.  

"We can't go in," they said.  "The whole bar is reserved."

We waited for the last fellow to show up, then we walked down the street to another place.  The boys said they made good cocktails there.  I trailed behind them, back and knee killing me.  They walked a normal pace, but I could barely keep up.  I caught a glimpse of my reflection passing a shop window.  Quasimodo.  

We got an outside table and ordered drinks.  The waiter was bad and the drinks didn't come.  We ordered starters.  

"This place sucks," I said.  "It's owned by the woman who owns the place across the street that just closed.  She's awful."

Everyone agreed.  But the drinks finally came, then the food, and the boys talked shit and commented on the passing women.  We ordered another round.  When the check came, I split it with one of the fellows.  

"Where are we going now?"

It was still bright and blue, so we headed to the little beer garden down the street.  The crowd was beat.  We ordered beers.  I was still hungry and ordered ribs.  Someone ordered wings.  It turned out to be a shitty night, I thought, and just after dark, the party was breaking up.  A group of fellows walked in as we got ready to leave, younger guys in their thirties.  Up and comers.  T knew them.  One of the young guys owned two new car dealerships.  They all wore pro shop outfits, polos and plaid shorts, and they talked with T about golf courses.  T was playing with some financial guys in the morning.  

Blah blah blah.  

So, yea. . . it had been a weird day.  And when I woke up at three, I felt alone.  I wanted to cuddle up against my true love's back and fall asleep.  But the room was hollow and empty and the gremlins were hard at work.  My knee and back were hurting.  I tried, but I could think of nothing pleasant.  So at four, I hit the coffee maker and read the papers.  

It is six now and sunrise is still a fair way off.  One more coffee, I think, and then I'll go back to bed.  It is Friday.  Good Friday, some say.  I'll need to get my mother flowers and maybe some candy.  We will have Easter dinner with her across the street neighbors.  

The empty hollowness surrounds me.  

Waiting

Eva Chupikova

I just found Eva Chupikova's work this morning (link). It is lovely. You might like it, too. Those crazy Europeans get to do things we here in the conflicted U.S.A no longer can. Everything is contentious. There is no poetry here now, only anger, hate, and resentment. She is from Czechia and Slovakia. Majored in philosophy. 

There are such lovely things. 

Like last night's dinner.  I'll begin with that.  I'd been looking forward to it since I had a fairly bland one the night before.  No, wait. . . I'll save that for now.  Let's go back to the beginning.  

I had a full day of mom.  Pretty much, anyway.  After a slow morning, I got to the gym and worked out quickly, then gave myself twenty minutes of sunning by the pool.  Ten minutes per side.  It was 12:30.  I'd eaten only a yogurt and some banana bread before the gym.  I'm a fool for sweet starches with my coffee.  Banana bread, chocolate croissants. . . something.  It is a weakness, I guess, but it seems to be a perfect companion to early morning coffee.  

12:30.  The sun was bright and the day warm but not so much.  I had things to do.  What could be put off?  I needed to eat.  I decided to take back the LED bulbs I had bought which did not work and get a refund.  The lighting store was close to the house.  When I walked in, the counter girl remembered me.  

"They didn't work?"

"No."

"Was the wattage too low?"

"I guess.  I had some others that worked."

She was kind of cute in a not glamorous way.  I hated to disappoint her, but she didn't smile.  I said thanks when she handed me my refund, and she blandly said you're welcome.  

I haven't shopped well recently.  I had few lunch choices.  A can of tuna.  Mayonnaise and sweet relish.  Triscuits.  Kombucha.  

I needed to make a run across town to see if the Plastic Diffusion place could make a lighting cover, but I didn't want to.  An Epsom Salts soak.  A shower.  A brief nap.  

I had told my mother I would take her to Costco.  I had to hurry.  We would have only an hour before I needed to get her to her therapy session.  We got a cart.  She pushed it like a walker.  Slowly.  Very slowly.  We navigated the store, but she couldn't find the paper napkins.  We searched.  Slowly.  We found them in the last place we looked.  O.K.  Checkout.  We had ten minutes.  

I dropped her off at the front door and went to the garage to park.  As she got out of the car, I saw a tall, thin woman in a business suit and low heels walking toward us.  She cut an attractive figure from afar.  She crossed the road and got to the entrance at the same time as my mother and helped her with the door.  

By the time I got to the office, my mother was already in with the therapist.  The thin hipster fellow who works there smiled and waved me back.  My mother was seated with her hand in the massager machine.  Sitting at the table with her was the tall, thin lady in the business suit.  Hmm.  The therapist pushed a chair out for me as she talked to the tall thin lady.  My mother turned over her shoulder and smiled.  I sat silently and listened to the tall thin lady talk about her visit with her doctor in a high-toned way.  I pegged as someone who knew people but was not one.  There was a pretension in her voice with which I was familiar.  

The timer on the massage machine dinged and the therapist rolled over and got my mother started on her exercises.  She asked my mother a question, but my mother couldn't hear.  She repeated it more loudly, but my mother still couldn't hear.  I answered for her.  I did this for a couple more questions.  Then the therapist went back to working on the tall thin woman's hand.  More high-toned talk.  I heard the therapist say, "Did he say it might be Dupuytren's contracture disease?"  

"How do you spell that?" asked the tall thin lady.  

"D-u-p-u. . . .y. . . ."

The therapist looked at me.  I was grinning and held up my phone.  

"Do you want me to look it up?"

". . . t-r-e-n-s!"

"Here.  You can feel it."

The therapist cautiously took my hand but only quickly.  

"Do you mind showing that to her?  This is what it looks like."

I spread my palm wide.  

"Do you have it on both hands?"

"No, just one."

"How long have you had it?"

"A long time.  I think since I was in my thirties.  I just discovered what it was a couple days ago.  I thought I caused it by getting mad and punching my hand."  

I made a fist and popped it into my left palm.  The ladies laughed.  

The music in the facility changes.  It is often old rock or sometimes a little hip-hop, but today it was jazzy.  

"Did you pick the music today?" I giggled to the therapist.  

"Noooo. . . I don't know who did."

The therapy room is big and open and everyone, patients and therapists, began joking about the music mix.  I was the only one who liked it, I think.  I could feel the tall thin lady glancing on me.  Was she vibing on me?  Hmm.  

A man next to us going through some kind of knee therapy said something to the tall thin lady, and they walked away for a moment.  I looked at the therapist with a grin.  

"Oooo. . . a little therapy romance."

She smiled.  "No. . . they work in the same office."  

When the lady came back, she said she needed to go, then turned to me, looked me in the eye, and said, "Thank you for the pleasant company." 

Yes. . . I think she had been vibing on the scruffy hippie man.  Huh.  I had just washed my hair.  

Therapy done, I took my mother to the grocery store, but she said she was too tired to go in, so I left her with the motor and the a.c. running.  Chicken, broccoli, rice, wine, and. . . uh-oh. . . Alfredo sauce.  I would cut the chicken into bite sized bits and marinate them in teriyaki sauce and drop them in a pan.  Three minutes on the stovetop per side.  When done, they would go into a bowl over the rice and broccoli, then I would drizzle just a little of the Alfredo on top.  

Holy smokes. . . it was perfect.  

"What is in Alfredo sauce," my mother wanted to know.  

"Butter, cream, and salt," I said.  "How can that not be good?"

When we finished, we went to sit with our drinks outside. Then, after a bit, I went in to clean up. I was careful. I scrubbed everything shiny--pots, pans, counters, sink. I wanted it to look like the maids had come. I'm trying to not be so much in a hurry.  

It was after seven when I left my mother, but there was plenty of daylight left. I stopped at the liquor store on the way home and got scotch and a small pack of cheroots. The ones I was giving up. Back home, I poured a drink and lit a cheroot and went to the deck. I needed the deck. I sit out with my mother, but it is different. I needed to think my thoughts. That is not what I do at my mother's. It takes time to rummage through the brain attic and pull together something coherent. As I sat, people of the neighborhood walked by. They would wave and say hello, and sometimes they would stop to talk. When the scotch was gone and the cheroot had gone out, I went back inside. It was moving toward dusk now. I turned on the lamp beside the chair where I would sit and read. I put on the water and made a cup of Milk Oolong tea. I had been a good son and had made a wonderful meal, but now I was tired and knew that bedtime would come early. The gymroids were trying to get a happy hour together for the following afternoon. I would probably go. That's what life is now. I'm trying to be more productive in the wake of being creative. It will come back to me one day, I say. You can't be creative always. There are lulls, doldrums, days of work and duty. And there are the mundane pleasures of food and drink and nights out among people. It is important to study then, to read and learn and to look at new things and prepare for when the ideas begin to flow again. When. If.  

You can only hope. You can never know.  

Manic

I felt better yesterday than I have felt for a long time now.  I don't know why.  Everything is still the same.  The day was beautiful, but it was one in a long string of gorgeous days.  My knee hurts worse than it has since I first began getting the injections and people noticed that I was limping.  My jaw still pops and cracks and my car's power steering is still out.  No, there was no real reason that I could tell.  

I got up early.  There was much to do around the house in preparation for the cleaning crew.  I had told myself after their last visit that I would begin putting everything I used back into its proper place immediately after using it.  But that didn't happen.  I just got worse, so it took hours to get the place ready.  I rose early but didn't get to the gym until well past mid-morning.  It seemed alright.  None of the boys were there.  I'd be in and out without gabbing.  I had many stops to make, much to do.  

Just as I was finishing up, though, one of the outer moons walked in, a fellow a bit younger than I, but not so much to the eye.  He is short and thick with a broad face, a beard, and very southern eyes.  Surely you know what I mean.  He is recently retired and the gym, it would seem, is his social outlet.  He's a talker.  A long, slow talker, a teller of stories that have no beginning or ending, just a rough stretch of broken highway.  But he is friendly, so. . . I told him the LED/lighting cover story.  Nothing abstract or conceptual, just a self-incriminating tale that was easy to understand.  When I got to the part about breaking the acrylic lighting cover and being unable to find the proper size, he said, "Go to Diffusion Plastics.  That's what they do.  They'll cut you a piece that is the right size."

These redneck boys are great, I have to say.  How in the hell would I have known that.  

"Alright.  Thanks, man.  Wow, yea. . . I'll go this afternoon."

Just then Tennessee walked in.  When he walked over, I quickly told him the tale of the lighting, but he jumped to the ending right away.  

"You broke the cover didn't you.  You dropped it."

Gravity being what it is, the Outer Moon came over to get in on the conversation.  Five minutes.  Ten minutes.  I walked to the dumbbell rack.  I needed to finish up.  I had to go.  Then T came over and began telling me about his morning, meeting with the 7 Billion Dollar fund manager who wants him in on a deal.  These fuckers.  I can't afford power steering but they all have beach houses, mountain homes, first class trips around the world.  

But as I say, I have the gift of gab.  And gab we did.  Half an hour.  

"O.K. boys.  I gotta run.  What was the name of that place again?"

"Do yourself a favor.  Get a pencil and a piece of paper at the desk on your way out and write it down."

I didn't, but when I got to the car, I Googled it.  It didn't come up in any of my searches.  Shit.  I got out of the car and limped back to the gym with my phone.  The boys were still standing together, gabbing.  A female trainer had joined them.  They saw me coming and started laughing.  Apparently I was the butt of whatever joke they had been telling.  

"That place doesn't come up on a Google search," I said.  

"O.K.  Come out to my car.  I have their number in my phone."

And so we both limped out to the edge of the parking lot to his 1976 GMC Jimmy.  He opened the door to get his phone and I looked inside.  It was a mess of wrappers, paper, cups, tools. . . a real redneck dream.  

"What year is this?" I asked.  "Did you buy it new?"

"No.  I got it out in Texas a couple years ago."  

That launched him into another never-ending story that stopped when he found the phone number.  Yea, they were still in business.  O.K.  Don't go today, though.  There is a sickness running through the place.  Everybody is going home.  

"I'll go tomorrow," I said.  

As we stood there in the shade of an overgrown tree beside the Jimmy, another gymroid, a big, tatted boxer, crossed the lot laughing.  

"This reminds me of high school.  You guys doing a drug deal or just drinking a Mickey's Wide Mouth?"

If you don't know what a Mickey's wide mouth is, you'll have to look it up.  

When I got back to my car, I had a text from the cleaning crew.  They would be at the house in ten minutes.  Shit.  I called my mother to tell her about the light cover, but she couldn't hear me on the phone, so I said I'd see her later.  I had errands to run.  

As I said, the day was beautiful, and apparently everyone was at the pool 'cause there wasn't any traffic.  I decided to go to Whole Foods to get fixings for my evening meal.  I would roast vegetables and tofu.  But I was hungry after the gym, so I decided to get food from the hot bar and eat it there.  It surprises me how many people eat lunch at Whole Foods.  The counters and tables inside and out were packed.  

As I ate, I saw one an old acquaintance, a well-known entity in town.  Plaid shorts, loafers without socks, a double XL untucked Oxford.  He looked like the 1990's.  Only older.  Maybe you can stay with the fashion, Bubba, but you can't stop time.  

My lunch sucked.  

I walked to the car with my groceries, though, feeling light and springy.  Don't know why.  I put the groceries in the back and realized I had an Amazon purchase that I meant to return.  I cursed myself for not taking it in with me, but then changed my mind.  I was lucky to have remembered it at all.  

Inside, there was nobody in line.  I handed over my package and let them scan the code on my phone.  Easy.  Quick.  Done.  

Money back into my account.

Walking back through the parking lot, I saw this.  

Was that graffiti or was that custom?  I was hoping it said "Fuck You," but after a minute, I could see what it said.  Still. . . . 

Next stop, the bank.  No cars in the drive-thru.  The teller was quick.  In and out.  It is fun making a deposit.  My account is going dry.  Just that morning, I had signed an agreement with the fixit company to do more repairs on the apartment and my house.  Cha-ching!  It is costing a pretty penny.  Tens of thousand of them.  The deposit wouldn't cover it, but that is another story.  

As I pulled out of the drive-thru, I watched a city bus pull into its stop where an illegally parked car was blocking the lane .  The driver miscalculated just a bit--and whoa!--he ripped the front end of the car away from the body.  Holy shit. . . did he just do that?  The driver got out and looked. Then all the passengers got out.  The bus sat blocking the road.  Traffic in both directions was at a standstill.  There was nothing for me to do until the bus moved.  Would it?  

Eventually.  

Grocery shopping, lunch, a return, and the bank.  It had taken awhile.  Surely the cleaning crew was done.  There is always four or five of them, so it was not a daylong project.  

A soak, a shower. . . a nap.  I got up and drove to my mother's.  

She was not feeling well.  The across the street neighbor had called to tell me she was inviting my mother and I to Easter dinner on Sunday.  Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn.  She said she called my mother, but she was not doing well.  Indeed she wasn't.  Headache, she said.  Felt bad all over.  My feeling is that she sits too much. 

 "You need to do things," I said.  "You can't just sit all day.  Draw.  Paint like you used to.  Something.  Little things."

"I did two loads of laundry today.  It wiped me out." 

I think she doesn't breathe enough.  She needs to do breathing exercises.  I don't know.  

"Remember that lady from the gym we saw in the parking garage after therapy the other day?  She asked me what I was doing there and I said I had taken you to therapy. That's your mother she said?!?  She doesn't look ninety-three.  I thought it might have been your girlfriend.  Ho!  I guess that is a nice compliment for you, but man. . . I wasn't too happy about that.  I must be looking pretty shitty."

"I don't look my age," my mother said.  

"Apparently I do."

I had opted for one of the NA beers I had left there.  They are good if you don't try to pretend too much that they are beer.  45 calories, less than half of a light beer, a third of the calories in a soda pop.  They are a good drink, I think, as long as you don't pretend.

When I got home, I was clear headed and full of vigor for some reason, and I decided to forego a cocktail and made an A.A. alternative instead.  I sat out on the porch in the perfect air.  Maybe I wouldn't drink tonight.  

I went in and chopped the vegetables--cabbage, potatoes, carrots, broccoli, onions, and cauliflower.  Salt, cayenne pepper, and olive oil.  I put it in the enameled cast iron Dutch oven and set the stove to broil.  Another A.A. cocktail.  I remembered to order a book I had promised my mother's across the street neighbor on Amazon.  Next day delivery--it would be here for Easter dinner.  What the hell.  I poured a vodka and soda with lime and waited for the vegetables.  Just  at the end, having changed my mind about the tofu, I threw in some roasted chicken from the night before, then, in a few minutes, I plated it all and turned on the television.  

Have you heard the latest Trump news?

After dinner. . . I don't know. . . there was still some of the 14 year old scotch Q had bought.  Just a glass.  I picked up "The Passenger" and read. . . with another whiskey.  Now, finally, the sun was setting.  I had an urge to fire off my BB pistol.  Why?  Beats me.  Maybe I knew.  I got up and pulled it down from the shelf and went outside.  Nobody was around and the yard trash can was sitting on the curb.  Pow.  Pow.  Pow.  That was a good sixty or seventy feet and I was hitting bullseye.  

The whiskey didn't seem to be affecting me.  Maybe another, I thought, but no. . . I changed my mind.  Time to make some Milk Oolong tea.  It is a wonderful tea and fairly hard to get.  I set the pot to boil and scooped up the round balls of tea in the stainless steel tea ball that T and his wife had given me.  That's tea, ball, tea, ball, T.  Keep up.  

Three minutes of brewing.  I sat back down with Cormac McCarthy.  

His grandmother put the flat of her palm on the table as if she were about to get up but she didn't.  She looked more than tired.

Are you all right?

I'm all right, Bobby.  Don't pay no attention to me.  I get lonely sometimes is all.  She turned and looked at him.  Do you ever?

He wanted to tell her that he knew no other state of being.  Sometimes, he said.  

I made another half cup of tea with the of Milk Oolong remains and read until it was gone.  Then I had an idea.  I had bought a mouthguard over a year ago, one that was meant to prevent snoring.  

"You will die," she said, "if you don't do something about your apnea.  Stroke.  Kidney failure.  Something."

That was my doctor after I quit using the aqualung to sleep.  But the mouthguard required boiling, imprinting your bite, and I had just never done it.  I picked up the package and opened it.  I set the water to boiling and went through the steps.  

I tried it when I went to bed.  Holy shit, it was weird.  When I woke up a little while later, it wasn't in my mouth.  I turned on the light and found it lying in the bed.  I put it back in, turned off the light, and tried to sleep.  I don't think I did.  After a couple hours, I took it out and lay back down.  I don't know if it works or not.  I will try it again tonight.  It will take some getting used to.  

I have a busy day, and then I take my mother to Costco, then to therapy.  Then we will go to the grocers and I will make us dinner.  I'm a kind and loving person, I think, and a pretty good cook.  Still. . . 

Sometimes, he said.