Mythology Without Regret

Originally Posted Tuesday, October 15, 2013

I'd forgotten that sometimes my mother's friend got a little naughty.  Nothing outrageous, just a slight teasing for the boy.  When I think of her, I always remember that she smelled deeply of fried foods.  She was from Eastern Europe, but moved here as a child.  Still, she grew up in the tradition and carried it with her as an adult.  The fragrances were exotic to me.  She made me think of gypsies.  At small gatherings that the parents used to have, all the men wanted to dance with her.  She didn't move like the other women we knew, and she seemed never to look around for approval.  She was self-contained and confident, but she was always sweet with me. 

She taught me many things, one of which was to make your own fun.  It was the best lesson I could ever learn, and it serves me well.  Often when I garner the attention of a young woman, I think, it is because of this.  The young routinely are chasing after a good time.  They will run here and fly there looking for it.  They are happy when there is a party or a festival, and these things are good, but in between times, they seem lost and dumbly depressed.  It is, however, always fun with C.S.  Anything can be celebrated.  Everything can be fun. 

A girl called me on Saturday night who lives about an hour away.  She was going to a party for Libertarians and to meet some people for beers in another town.  She had to be up early the next morning, she said, so she was sticking closer to home. 

"What are you doing," she asked?

"I just want to sit out and drink a bottle of champagne," I said.  "Ralph might come over with one of his expensive scotches.  Maybe we'll get some mussels."

"Jesus," she said, "I miss everything.  Maybe I'll drive into town." 

It was nothing, really.  Maybe just the way I said it.  I've had friends like that, too, people who could make you believe you had missed everything, that you should have been there.  When you went with them, no matter where, everything would change.  A simple Cuban diner could become the most exotic place you'd ever eaten.  The slightly frumpy middle aged daughter of the owner transformed into a lovely,  potent force, a chthonic fountain of desire and pleasure, the cheap plates of rice and beans and shredded beef and fried plantains morphed into something better than any haute cuisine.  And truly before the night ended, chairs would be pushed aside and the cheap stereo turned up, and the there would be dancing under the green fluorescent lighting.  "Mas cerveza!  Todo es bueno!" 

Later, when people heard about it, they would be frantic to go. 

I think of Hemingway and Fitzgerald.  John Huston was able to do that, too.  

But it all began with my mother's friend.  She was the source of it all.  She did what she wanted without regret.  And what she wanted was really nothing at all.