Goodbye Girls

Originally Posted Thursday, June 20, 2013

One day back.  That's all it takes.  For whatever cosmic reason, coming home from a trip is always tragic for me.  I use the term in the popular way, for I know the difference between tragedy and pathos, but if I used the word "pathetic," I don't think people would recognize it in the intended way.  Tragic or pathetic, though, coming home never seems to work out right. 

I was happy, even with the plane delays, even with going back to work the next day.  By morning, however, there were revelations.  Weeks of heavy rain had exposed some weakness in the roof.  A giant patch of mold or mildew had formed over the washing machine while I was gone, right where the roof meets the walls.  Terrific.  After showering, I threw a towel onto the bathroom floor to dry the moisture that inevitably gets in the corner where the wall meets the tub, where the curtain doesn't always close.  I stepped on the towel to soak up the water and the floor just gave way.  It separated from the wall.  Again. . . terrific. 

Years ago, I would have sunk into an immediate depression and begun questioning the cosmos about justice and injustice.  "Why me?" I'd ask.  Why does this always happen after I spend some big wad of money.  It does, too.  The day I received my Leica M7 in the mail, a super big expense for me at the time considering I wasn't doing any particular thing with photography, the a.c. repairman were there.  While I sat with the guilt of my new purchase, they came out of the attic to tell me that the unit was beyond repair.  I'd have to buy a new one--$5,000. 

So now I've learned to expect it.  Go away, come home to disaster.  THAT'S the word I should have used in the first paragraph instead of tragic--DISASTROUS.  That is what it is. 

Instead of allowing myself to sink into depression, I called the repair man.  What else is there to do but fix it?  I would not let this get me down.  It was just inevitable.  It was part of the expense of being happy for awhile. 

Then I went to work.  It is too much to write about.  It is a death dealing, soulless place meant to strip you of any sense of life or individuality.  I felt threatened all the live long day. 

I am better at being a gypsy than a farmer.  This staying put in one place is less satisfying for me than a life on the road.  I like doing the Kerouac.  I like living in somebody else's home.  I need it, need a place to come home to, but other people are better at making the place than am I.  I just have the road running through my shoes. 

The repair man has come and gone.  He will come back this weekend to do the work, he said.  Then I will give him a bunch of money and feel the pinch.  Further travel plans will have to be put on hold.  There is only so much money a man alone can spare.  A man alone doesn't have a bloody chance (Hemingway). 

Now I must prepare for work again, this time with less happiness, with less enthusiasm.  Goodbye bliss, goodbye road, goodbye to all you vacation girls who are so carefree and happy.