Revealing the Wound

I DID it.  I unwound the bandages from my leg without passing out.  Then, of course, I took a photo and sent it to SOME of my friends, the ones I didn't think would mind seeing something awful and kind of gross.  I was looking for sympathy, of course, or something akin.  Then, after messaging, with the greatest of trepidation, I stepped into the shower.  Surprising, really.  The thing didn't sting or have any strange sensations.  And though I couldn't believe I was supposed to get the thing wet, it seemed quite alright.

Once I had finished my shower and the required after-shower ablutions, I checked my phone with some anticipation.  I had gathered no great sympathies, however, only some rather matter of fact stuff, and then only a very few.  

So much for drama.

Then I remembered a saying from my childhood in the ghetto--"If you want sympathy, you can look it up in the dictionary between. . . ."

So, being bereft of the emotional support I was so desiring, I decided that I needed medicine.  

Walking was more difficult without the support of the Ace bandage than it was before, and it was a bit of a struggle across the burning parking lot and into the bar.  Sounds like a Hemingway title.  

I looked even more goofy than usual as the doctor told me to keep the thing loosely covered "so the dogs don't lick it."  The wound was much bigger than I had imagined and I hadn't any bandages--even the largest stick on ones you can buy that are larger than your hand--that would cover it, so I put on a pair of my loose long China pants.  They looked like the kind surgeons so often wear.  But I didn't care, really.  Most people wear unstylish things, especially in this heat.  Shorts and old logo t-shirts and sandals are de rigueur.  

A skinny, spicy margarita with tajin was just the thing.  

But man, it has gotten hot.  The thermometer won't leave 95 for days now as we struggle under a "heat dome."  It is still spring and I am certain these are End Times.  It boggles my mind that people voted for Trump, but he won my state in the last election.  

"Drill, baby, drill!"

You can only conclude that most people are mentally impaired.  

I ordered some street tacos to go with the marg, but they were pork and all wrong.  And it was just then as I was taking my first bites that I determined how I would live out the next six months of Global Warming Heat.  I would live on fish tacos, beer, skinny spicy margaritas, and mango ice cream.  It seemed, really, the only thing to do.  I would need linen shirts and pants and a good pair of huaraches, some beaded necklaces and colorful string bracelets.  Hell, I'd probably want an ankle bracelet as well.  This was only evening wear, of course.  Everything now must be done in the mornings.  By two o'clock, it will be time for siesta.  Close the blinds, take off your clothes, turn on the fan, and lie on top of the covers.  The margarita will help you sleep until four.  By five, perhaps, the sun will be low enough to allow you to go out.  Fish tacos and beer await you as the sun goes down.  And later on, the ice cream.  

I will make all of this at home.  I've decided to boycott restaurants with their cheap ingredients and high prices.  They are not a good value.  I do not get my money's worth.  Fish tacos require little--shredded cabbage, grated white cheese, jalapenos, and cilantro.  Skinny spicy margs need only lime juice, orange juice, and sliced jalapeños (though I've gotten wind of the idea of using a spicy hot asian sauce instead), and a little honey.  I'm thinking I will buy an ice cream maker.  That should bring the women running.  

I suggested to the woman who almost never asked me out that sitting in the sprinkler was the only way to truly beat the heat.  

"I'm a hillbilly, so I'm down," she said.  

I've done it before.  It is called adiabatic cooling.  The evaporation of the water off the skin draws heat from inside the body.  You can freeze to death like that.  A sprinkler and an inflatable kiddie pool with cold drinks will see you through the hottest of summers.  

Bereft of love and sympathy, after lunch, I took the required nap.  At five, I went to see my mother to show her my wound.  We decided to sit inside in the air conditioning rather than outside in the heat, but sitting inside staring at one another gets just a little tedious.  She gave me no real advice on the leg.  She is just happy that the cyst is gone.  

When I got home around six-thirty, the afternoon heat had subsided.  It was time for a Campari.  I sent a text to C..C.  I had introduced him to the pleasures of Pusser's Rum, the official drink of the British Royal Navy.  

In the Royal Navy, sailors were historically afforded a daily ration of rum, known as a "tot." This ration was initially one pint of rum, but it was later reduced to half a pint. This daily ration was part of their daily sustenance and became a staple of their life at sea. The daily rum ration was abolished in 1970.

C.C. makes a variety of drinks using Pusser's, but last night he was drinking Pusser's Old Fashioned, so I sent him this.  

I've owned several of these enameled cups since I went to the America's Cup race in Newport in 1983.  Saturday's toast: "Sweethearts and wives, may they never meet."

Oh, those Royal Navy sailors were drunken sots and not the kind you would bring home to mother.  

Halfway through my Campari, Tennessee and his wife rolled up on their Vespa.  They'd been to a reggae festival in town.  I got them drinks and we chatted on the deck amid the bites of tiny, invisible mosquitoes.  

"We're going to the beach house next week if you want to come."

I pointed to my leg at which T's wife had looked while he stood at a distance cringing.  

"Not next week," I said, "but thanks."

It was nice to have a bit of company.

It was too hot to cook.  My appetite was suppressed, so I decided on salad for dinner--a spring mix with sliced Campari tomatoes, avocado, and garbanzo beans, olive oil and Balsamic vinegar.   I wished I had some cheese to grate on top.  It would go on the list.  

"Do girls still like "Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

"Oh, yes.  I love that movie."

I like girls who like "Breakfast at Tiffany's" rather than "Pretty Woman."  That's me.  Just saying.  Different souls, I think.  Rather so.  

Here's a scene that was deleted from the final version of the film.  Hmm.