I Wish That I Could Be

Life is wearing me out, I suspect.  So far, 2025 has been a real motherfucker.  For me, anyway.  Some of you may be having the time of your life.  But I feel worn "to the bone" to use a tired phrase.  But it is pretty accurate.  I am just bone weary.  

It's not that everything is bad.  I know that things can be (and may get) a lot worse.  There are good things, I think, depending on how you define "good."  And maybe it is just me.  Perhaps my ability to bounce back has declined.  But fuck, man. . . I've been limping along this road alone carrying my own bags for a whole lotta miles now, and some other people's, too.  I could use a lap to lie in, even if only for a weekend.

As illustration of this growingly boring point, last night I fell asleep on the couch at eight.  I don't even remember what I was doing at that point.  It wasn't quite dark yet.  I'd eaten and had, fortunately, already cleaned the kitchen.  So when I woke at ten, I had few things to do before I fell into bed.  

And that is why, I guess, I am up at 4:30 this morning.  Morning?  It is not morning.  It's the middle of the fucking night.  

So what's the big friggin' deal?  

I think the thing that is breaking my back now is the rotted out floor joist the repairman found behind the wall in the kitchen.  This is nothing small that you can put a bandaid on.  This is going to be big--labor and money.  It is going to be big friggin' money.  

And I don't even know who to call to see about repairing it.  Fortunately, I've made some new friends in the past couple years who are rich as fuck builders and contractors.  They are cock of the walk kind of guys, you know, the way people who have "made their own fortunes" are.  Nobody "makes their own fortunes," of course, no matter what they say, but I won't get into my economic theories here.  

This narrative can't be told in chronological order, I think, so let's bounce a bit.  There are "good" things that have happened, again, depending on your take.  I'll need to back it up.  The visit to the surgeon went well, for instance.  He said my leg was healing.  Now I'll consider that a good thing, but, you know, I have huge, jagged, still quite red, stitched up flaps of flesh on my calf that makes grown men run away.  Women, not so much.  They rather relish looking at it, or so it seems. 

"Can you show it to me?" they ask.  Rather surprising, I think, but yea, I show it to them and they say, "Oh, that is going to be fine."  The boys shout, moan, and avert their eyes.  Rather funny.  

So, depending on how you feel about having your lower leg cut to pieces and stitched back up, yea--that is some good news.  

But it is not something to be desired.  

I took my car to the auto mechanic.  He fixed both the power steering and the air conditioning, and all of it for $375.  Now THAT is great news.  Unbelievable.  And yet, who wants their power steering and air conditioning to go out?  No one.  

See what I mean?  

Yesterday, I let the body shop have my car to fix my broken driver's side door.  I went at nine, but they weren't open . WTF?  I was a bit dubious after this.  They were, it seemed to me, going to Jimmy/Jerry rig the door to fix it.  Oh yes, I was skeptical from the start.  The night before, I'd asked the tenant if I could use her car for an hour.  Oh, no, she said, she had a ton of things she had to do in the morning.  You remember my bet, right--dollars to donuts?  

When I took my car in at ten, they were open, so I dropped it off.  I had to walk home.  The doc said I could do longer walks now, so I thought I'd be o.k. walking the couple of miles.  But I worried.  I certainly didn't want to rip any of the forty or so stitches.  

It was hot, and since I had to wear long pants, I was sweating like a drunk.  As I turned onto my street, I saw the builder of the house across the street getting into his truck.  I thought I might catch him, but the truck began to roll before I reached him.  But he pulled over when he saw me.  

"How's it going?"

"Bad.  Listen.  I don't know who to call about fixing the floor joist."  

I had already told him about it one day at the gym.

"Should I call Strickland?"

Strickland is a remodeling company in town.  I know the owner.  He lives a few streets away, and he and I have been friendly for decades.

"They certainly could do it," he said, "but they are going to rape you on the price."

He thought for a second.  

"I've got a framer who might be able to help you.  Let me give you his information.  Tell him I told you to call."

Good news, right?  Sure.  But. . . huge fucking job.  And I weep.  

When I got back to the house, it was quarter 'til eleven.  The tenant's car was still in the driveway and her blinds were still drawn.  Yup.  So I called her.  

"Hello."  I'd obviously woken her.  

"I thought you had a bunch of stuff to do this morning," I said disingenuously.  

"I stayed up late last night."

As I told you yesterday, she doesn't go to bed until the time I got up this morning.  Actually, when I looked out the windows at 4:30 today, her lights were on, and I don't think she was getting up early.  But you know. . . she needed the car.  

"Do you need a ride," she asked.  

"Well, yea, but I can Uber, I guess."

"Can you wait half an hour?  I can take you then."

"Sure."  I don't have choices, I didn't add.  

It wasn't half an hour, of course.  

When she dropped me off at the Y, she said I should call her if I needed a ride home.  Of course I was going to need a ride home.  And so, when I finished up, I did.  A couple times.  Of course, she didn't answer.  

I called an Uber and got my $15 transport home in a car with a ripped and falling headliner and a bad rear axel.  

I showered.  I ate some soup.  I took a nap.  

Late in the afternoon, I got a call.  My car was ready.  I looked out the window.  The tenant's car was there, but so was someone else's.  I didn't feel like walking the two miles back to the repair shop.  It was 94 degrees.  So I called her.  

"Can you wait half an hour?"

Was I willing to bet dollars to donuts again.  I mean I was up donuts, but. . . . 

When she dropped me off, I could feel a tingle in my cojones.  I was anxious to see how they butchered my door.  The father wasn't there, but the son said hello.  

"Let's go look at the car," he said.  He opened the door and showed me what they did.  They had welded something which was the point of my concern.  He closed the door.  It whispered shut.  Then I did it.  It was practically silent.  Holy moly--this was good news, right?

Then I paid him $350.  Such has been the adjutant to "luck" lately.  That is just the way it has gone.  

I got in the car and started it.  I was worried about the electronics that were in the door latch, but everything worked.  The door light didn't come on and the interior lights went off.  The car was cooling nicely and steered like a dream.   Oh, sure, something else will go wrong, but for the moment, I was happy.  

I drove straight to my mother's house to check on her.  She still hadn't eaten after vomiting sardines the day before.  She looked a little peaked.  Piqued?  Beats me, even after looking them up.  

We chatted.  She felt better, she said, and she had a menu for dinner.  For the first time since surgery, I was wearing shorts.  The doc said I could wear them now, but not to get sun on the wound.  Of course.  But that was good news, right?  So we sat looking at the ragged closure on my leg.  

"Don't let any bugs get in it," said my mother.  

"Now that's a capital idea!" I said.  

I had a couple stops to make on the way home.  I had given away the last of my Campari the night before.  I needed ingredients for the new dish I was attempting that night.  And I needed gas.  All of it once again in shorts, though, a sweet compliment to the unrelenting heat.  

When I got home, it was first things first.  I made a Campari and went to the deck.  Tennessee called.  I had asked him a question in text.  He was, of course, driving.  He is one of "those people."  We chatted a bit until he reached his beach house.  By then, my Campari was gone, so I went into the house and started prepping my meal.  It was going to be a strange one--ground beef and garbanzo beans fried with garlic, chili powder, and cumin.  Served over rice.  The meat and beans were fried on high for ten minutes until the garbanzos began to pop.  Then the liquid from the garbanzo beans was added and the pan was deglazed as it cooked.  

It was a surprising meal.  The cumin.  I'd never cooked with cumin before, not that I knew, but maybe it had been in the taco seasoning I made from scratch once.  I couldn't remember.  But, I thought, this meal might be better if I made that taco seasoning from scratch and used it to season the meat and beans instead.  Still, the meal was good as was.  And healthy.

When I woke at ten, I was glad I had already cleaned the kitchen.  

So backing up now, yea--2025 hasn't been so good.  I was living with my mother through January and part of February.  There were doctor's appointments and lots of therapy sessions I took her to.  There were meals to be cooked and cleaning to do.  And when I got home, my own shit had begun.  Infections.  Antibiotics.  Allergic reactions, illness and hallucinations, hospital, surgery. . . a month in beds and chairs.  Last night, my legs were getting sore from the two mile walk I had taken that morning.  Holy shit.  They hadn't been used in over a month.  

But. . . my bloodwork was super.  It's been a mixed bag.  What was it that moron said--life is like a box of chocolates?  That line was a huge hit with everyday America.  It struck home.  

I just want to get this all behind me.  But who knows what is up ahead, eh?  I'd like to have a little fun.  I'd like lunches again and dinners with friends.  And you know what I'd really like, but that is asking too much, perhaps, like asking for the moon.  

But here I am, drinking coffee, writing on my laptop, and ready to go back to bed if I feel like it.  As I said, many people have it worse.  But really. . . that never succors a person all that much.  I mean  Richard Cory, wealthy, tall, and imperially slim, one calm summer night went home and put a bullet through his head.  

"Oh I wish that I could be, oh I wish that I could be, oh I wish that I could be. . . ."

Well, shoot.  Seems you'd have to go to YouTube to watch this.  I don't think most of you watch or listen to the videos anyway, but for those of you who simply want to hit the start button. . . . here.