Friday, February 16, 2024

Disappointment and the Void

I struggle again this morning with where to begin.  I began with a photo of the girl from the Cafe Strange and had an idea about what I wanted to say, but I have changed my mind.  I will write about me instead.  I went to bed with one thing on my mind but woke up with another.  Or nothing.  What seemed to be exciting in the evening was not so much before dawn.  Yup.  It is before dawn yet again.  I am longing to go back to bed.  

Whatever buzz I had going some days ago has been lost.  Or stolen.  Maybe it is the stars and moon or maybe it is some bad juju, but my mojo ain't working.  Yesterday, after waking to a throbbing pain in my shoulder and a kink in my neck and the ongoing trouble in my lower back, knee, etc, I decided to listen to my body's gripes.  

"You can't be twenty forever, dude."

"Forever 21?"

"Nope.  Forget about it."

I decided on a stretching workout.  No lifting.  No cardio.  Fuck it.  Just therapy stuff.  

My gymroid boys are not around.  Tennessee has been MIA since he went on a sailing trip in the Bahamas a couple weeks ago.  The rich car guy left on a skiing trip, and his buddy went to Vegas to see U2 in the new Sphere at the Venetian Resort.  And that one baffles me.  I can't understand the desire to do that at all, but I've known a couple of fellows now who have been excited to go.  All I can say is it's o.k. with me.  I guess U2 is like Wayne Newton and Carrothead now having residencies in Vegas.  Of the three, I'd rather see Newton, but that's just me.  

With everyone out, I figured to have a quiet, uneventful workout.  But just as I began, a woman came over to show me something on her phone.  She is the wife of the older gentleman in black with the white, wavy hair combed straight back.  He is in his 80s at least, but he is thin and trim and hasn't a line in his face.  I've been told he is a retired physician, but he looks kind of Mafioso.  He never says much, but he has "an eye for the ladies," as they say in Vegas.  He likes to tell them how pretty they are, and because of his age and demeanor, he gets away with everything.  He never says much.  He calls me "Baby."  Whenever he sees me, he lights up and says, "Hey, Baby," and we fist bump.  

His wife is quite a bit younger and has had some work done.  She is attractive in her own way.  One day she approached me.  She thanked me for being so nice to her husband.  

"He has dementia," she said.  "He can't really carry on a conversation."  

I was surprised.  "Oh. . . no need to thank me.  He's a swell guy.  Yea, we get along great."  

"I think he likes you because you remind him of his brother," she said.  "You look just like him."

It was she who approached me with the phone.  She had a photo of her husband's brother on the screen.  

"I wanted to show you. . . " she said.  

And indeed, he looked just like me and Tom and every other semi-handsome fellow with long hair and a slight beard.  He was a handsome Italian so I was flattered.  

She asked me if I had had my DNA tested.  I told her no.  She began to tell me the results of hers.  

"You must be a mix of Irish and Northern European," she proclaimed.  She is from Spain, but her tests showed she was a mix of Irish and Italian.  "That's probably why my husband and I were so attracted to one another."

"I probably have a lot of Neanderthal," I joked.  

"Well, we all do," she said.  

In a bit, the retired nurse I've known since my days doing yoga came over.  We were having similar issues that day.  

"My body's talking to me, too," she said.  She is finding it hard to be twenty/twenty-one as well.  We agreed we needed to adjust our minutes and be kinder to ourselves.  

After the gym, I showered and decided to take myself to lunch.  I needed to get out and have some fun.  I hadn't gone out for lunch for a very long time.  I decided on my favorite Italian place just up the street.  

I was lucky and found a parking place just a block away from the restaurant.  But that was the end of the luck.  As usual, I sat at the bar.  I was alone.  The big windows were closed.  It was fairly dark.  A man I did not like at all told me that a waitress would be with me shortly.  She was not the bartender.  There was none.  

I had come for the Calamari Luciana.  I ordered a glass of Sav Blanc.  Then I waited.  Forever.  There were few people in the restaurant, so it shouldn't have taken so long, but I heard the kitchen cutting up in loud. voices.  Drug addicts, I guessed, working the lunch shift.  Two silent big screen tvs hung above the bar playing some dumb ESPN sports show.  Flashing images kept drawing my involuntary eye.  I sat alone staring dolefully through the windows at the street.  

Eventually the calamari came. 

I took photos.  I wanted to share.   I texted to the void, nothing coming back in return.  This, friends, is not what I had had in mind.  

By two I was back home.  I decided to take a nap.  

When I got up, the rest of the day was boilerplate.  You know the drill by now.  

Suddenly, it is Friday.  I've been caught flatfooted.  The morning sky is gray.  The forecast for the weekend is rain.  I think I will make my own seafood stew.  And check my horoscope.  Perhaps I need a reading.  Deal the cards.  Toss the bones.  Show me the future in the bottom of a tea cup.  There is so little you can trust these days.  I'll heat essential oils with candles beneath old stone vessels.  I'll drink expensive wines.  And sleep.  I think I just want to sleep.  

No comments:

Post a Comment