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.