I went to the doc in the morning. He took a look at the surgical wound, stared for a moment, leaned in and looked at something closely, and then said it looked good. He had looked at it with enough concentration, though, that I was a bit doubtful.
"Good enough," is the hillbilly way. I grew up with "good enough." I've been trying to run away from it my entire adult life.
Then the PA who was looking at a computer screen laughed.
"What is this? I don't know what they are saying."
The doc went over to take a gander.
"I've never heard this before," the PA said.
The doc read through it, forehead wrinkled. He looked at me.
"Have you ever broken that leg?"
"No."
"Did you ever have a cat bite and maybe it lost its tooth?"
"No."
"That's odd. It doesn't matter. It's out now and it isn't cancer, so. . . ."
The report said there was bone in the cyst. That was just a bit more than a little freaky.
"Do you have any questions for me?" he asked.
"Can I start taking long walks now?"
He thought for a minute. "Yes, just put on good shoes."
"Can I ride an exercise bike?"
Again he thought. "Yes."
That was it.
"Come back in two weeks and I'll take the stitches out."
As I was walking out, I thought of one more thing.
"Can I wear shorts now or do I still need to keep this covered."
"You don't want to get that in the sun."
"O.K. But what about going to dinner or to the grocers."
"Yea. . . yea. But if you are going to be in the sun, put some sun screen on it. Use the kind with zinc."
Oh, hell, I thought, I'm not going to be putting anything on it. Uh-uh.
When I left, I drove to my mother's house and told her the news. We chatted for awhile, then I said, "I think I'll go up to the Mazda dealer and look at the cars. Do you want to come?"
She laughed. "No."
I just wanted to sit in one of them to see how they felt, but that is impossible. The sales guy showed me cars in the showroom then drove them up from the lot. Then he talked me into taking one for a spin. As we pulled off the lot, I said, "I'm sure glad I took my pain meds at my mom's. They are just starting to kick in."
He looked over at me bug eyed. When the traffic cleared, I hit the gas and gave a little shout. "Here we go!"
The car drove like a small 4 cylinder SUV drives. Nothing surprising. But the windows were small. There would be no sightseeing in this one. It was o.k., the best of its class all the car things agreed. And it was fairly reasonably priced. . . comparatively.
When we got back to the lot, I was ready to go, but he insisted on getting a price for a trade-in. I said no, my car isn't going to be worth much, but he insisted it wouldn't take long. He was a liar, and in the end, I was right. They'd give me a grand.
When I got back into my Xterra, the size, the 6 cylinders, the heft and better build of the car convinced me that I didn't want that small SUV. I love my car, even at 15 miles per gallon. And now the a.c. was working and the power steering was excellent. I decided to go somewhere for lunch.
I went to my favorite Spanish restaurant. The day wasn't so hot as it had been. As I walked up, I heard someone say hello. It was a woman who'd been in charge of IT at the factory. We hugged and said our greetings.
"You're not there anymore," I asked her?
"No, but I am doing a little bit of consultation work. What about you?"
"I just do lunches," I laughed. It wasn't true, of course. I didn't think I"d been out to lunch since before Christmas. I was pretty sure.
When I walked into the restaurant, a couple was sitting at the corner of the bar I like. A woman was sitting at the other corner on that side of the square that surrounded the bar well.
"Hey," grinned the barmaid. "How are you?"
"Hey," I said back. "Fine."
She handed me the menu.
"I don't need that," I said.
"White sangria? Ceviche?"
I was stunned. "You just keep getting smarter and more beautiful every time I see you," I giggled. "How do you do that? I want a gazpacho, too."
And that was how I celebrated. . . what? I didn't care. Oh man, it just felt good to be out. I was on a high. The couple on my left struck up a conversation for a bit. I was out and among the throng, I thought, and I was doing well. I could still carry on a conversation and be charming to strangers and barmaids alike. The day was nice, the food was good, and I felt fine.
After lunch, I decided to take my car to the recommended body shop to see how much it would cost to replace the door hinge on the driver's side. I'd watched a YouTube video on it, and it was a whole lot of work. But when I pulled up and told the fellow what I needed, he walked off then came back with a block of wood and a jack. He opened the car door and started jacking it up.
"I'm just going to bend the arms back a bit."
WTF?! I watched him with a mixture of fascination and horror. What if it worked?
He let the jack down and tried closing the door. Nope. He put the lift back in place and tried again. Nope. So he went to get his father. He walked out and looked and said they'd have to take the door off and take the latching part out and weld it and blah blah blah. This was nothing like what I had seen in the video.
"How much?"
He looked at me like a pirate. "$350."
I didn't know what to say.
"When?"
"Bring it in the morning. You can pick it up in the afternoon."
When I drove away, the car door didn't close all the way and the interior light stayed on. WTF? I think there is a sensor in the part they are going to weld. Did they know that? I was feeling I'd made a mistake. Actually, I didn't. They did. Maybe.
My bliss was draining away. I felt tired. I needed a nap.
When I got home, the repairman were nowhere to be seen. They had not shown up again. I think they have just given up. So I lay down and went to sleep.
I got up at four and drove to my mother's.
"How are you doing?" I asked her. She wasn't good. She'd been vomiting. She'd eaten a can of sardines and then in about an hour, she didn't feel well. She'd thrown up twice. Holy shit! I sat with her helplessly. What could I do? I looked up "botulism" to see the symptoms. She didn't have them. She was just getting rid of the food.
I didn't feel very good about leaving her, but what could I do?
"I'll call you later to check on you," I said.
Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn.
I had been excited about what I was going to make for dinner. Now I just wanted a drink. I made a Campari and took it to the deck to sit and think. This was life. One moment you're up, then three moments you're down. Bliss doesn't last.
I was making Hoisin Garlic Noodles from a NY Times recipe. Boil angel hair pasta. Finely cut six cloves of garlic and six scallions. Mix hoisin sauce, soy sauce, toasted sesame seed oil, and maple syrup. On medium high heat, sauté the garlic and onions for 30 seconds, then put in the mix and noodles. Toss until the noodles are coated, then leave them to cook for 3 minutes without disturbing until they begin to stick to the pan. My addition was cubed teriyaki chicken I had left over from the night before.
Oh, man. . . that was really good. I'm getting away from the basic healthy meals I've been fixing over and over again. They are good, but something like this is fun. I'm expanding my cooking horizons. Yup.
Still, they are dinners for one.
I'd called the tenant. I had an idea. I would drop my car off at the body shop and walk the two miles home now that I can. But then I'd be stuck at home, and I wanted to go to the gym. She is not an early riser. She gets up around noon. So. . "Hey. . . if you aren't going to be needing your car in the morning, could I borrow it for an hour?"
When she leaves for the summer, I often drive it so that the battery doesn't die and the tires don't go square, so this didn't seem unreasonable to me. But I know her well enough. . .
"Oh, no, I have a lot of things I need to do in the morning," she said. "But if I can, I'll take you to the gym."
Sure. Alright. I'll call her at ten today, and I will bet dollars to donuts she won't be up. She stays up all night long and goes to bed in the wee hours. Whatever. Such is life.
All I can do is cross my fingers about the car door. It makes me very nervous. My life certainly doesn't rise to the level of tragedy, but it certainly qualifies for pathos, the fall of someone who is not a hero, the impact of which will affect nobody. That is what it means to be pathetic. It is like a meteorite falling on a homeless person sleeping in the woods. It is awful, but it isn't tragic. It is simply pathetic.
And so it goes. As I say, the worst is always yet to come. But man, for a few hours yesterday, I was feeling good. I want to get out again. I want to have fun. I can be fun. Ask anyone.
O.K. Not "anyone." Not everyone, either.
But as yesterday's song "Wicked Game"goes, the last line, the version with lyrics, "Nobody loves no one." It is almost an e.e cummings poem. You know the one.
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
Damn, I love that poem.
No song today. Can't think of one, and really. . . I gotta go.
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