No Fool

I've never seen one of these this big.  Some kind of palm, but I don't know the name.  It is on a street in my mother's neighborhood.  I spied it the other day when I was taking a walk.  Holga lens, as you can tell.  

Just another snapshot, but this is somehow spectacular, at least botanically.  To me, anyway, if not to a botanist.  God knows how old this tree must be.  

I just looked it up.  Bismarckia.  Not so unusual.  They can grow up to 60 feet tall.  Huh.  

My undergrad degree was in zoology, so forgive my botanical ignorance if you will.  

When I woke up yesterday, I was not feeling "fresh."  My right eye seemed blurry and I didn't feel "present."  Still, I cooked breakfast for my mother and ate with her.  Around ten, I took off for my house.  I was still feeling funky.  When I got home, I changed into my walking costume.  Walking would do me good.  And so it did, I thought, when I got back.  

On my walk, just around the corner from my house and up the hill, there was a big set of nice wrought iron sitting on the curb in front of a big house.  Holy smokes, I thought.  Those chairs are nice.  The ones around my glass topped table are, too, but after awhile sitting on them is like sitting on a sieve.  I still had miles to go, but when I got home, I told myself, I'd come back and get them.  

I doubted they'd still be there.  

They were.  I loaded two chairs into my Xterra looking about like a thief.  Nobody shot at me, though.  

I put them on the deck.  Fine and good.  Do you have any idea how much these would cost at an antique store?

Me, neither.  

I looked for the newly handled sod lifter that my neighbor said she would leave on my deck.  It wasn't there.  Good, I thought.  I didn't really want to do the garden anyway.  I was still feeling funky.  But. . . it was early, so I went to the shed and got out the palm fertilizer and the 666 for the shrubs and jasmine.  The thing is. . . I used my bare hand to spread it all, throwing big handfuls around.  When I was finished, I went in and washed my hands.  And then. . . . 

My gut went crazy.  Suddenly.  I won't detail it for you, but I was sweating and felt weak all over.  Once I was in better control, I jumped into the shower.  I needed to scrub down, I thought.  Did the chemicals cross through my skin barrier and make me sick that quickly?  

Scrubadubdub.  

My gut was still funky.  I was still weak.  I sat down and waited for whatever was going to happen.  

Maybe some whiskey?  Something.  It was mid-afternoon.  I decided to get up and go.  Cafe Strange.  I hadn't been more than a couple times this past year staying with mom.  Would my friendly Cafe con Leche server still be working there?  Last time I saw her, her life was much too hectic.  She is a silversmith who works at a jewelers on the Boulevard.  She had gone back to grad school.  I had gone one Sunday awhile ago, and she was not there and the person working the counter would not make a mimosa.  

I would go and see.

When I walked in, there was the usual line.  My "friend" was working, making kid coffees, caramel yakimotos or whatever, and looking a little harried, not quite frowning but not looking cheerful, either.  

Then she looked up and saw me. . . and she lit up.  

"Hey, you. . . I was just thinking about you the other day!"

A tall Persian man, who with his brother is at the cafe everytime I have ever been there, was standing in front of me.  And like her, he lit up, too.  

"You were?"

She looked a little embarrassed.  "No. . . not you.  Ha-ha.  Him."

She pointed to me.  The room turned to look.  

"Are you still making mimosas on Sundays for strange old men?"

"Always for you," she said.  

The Persian turned to look at me.  I wanted to make him feel better.  

"Don't be stealing that from me," I said.  "I don't get much of that anymore."

He laughed.  

When I got to the counter we chatted.  She was still in school, she said with a frown.  She wasn't digging it.  She was still working at the jewelry store and was still dancing ballet.  She told me she had just had a birthday.  

"Which one?"

She hesitated.  "Twenty-six."

"Jesus Christ, girl, you're life is passing you by.  You're getting old."

"I know!"

"Way to old for me," I laughed.  

As she squeezed the oranges in the press, I saw the Tall Goony Goon girl, the pretty, nutso six foot two girl, sitting at the bar.  She looked up.  Smiled.  I shot back a peace sign.  She smiled more.  

Now I've seen the movies.  I've seen it live.  Old men go to the same diner because some young waitress chats them up.  See "Wrestling with Ernest Hemingway."  1993.  Richard Harris, Robert Duvall, Sandra Bullock, Shirley MacLaine.  A terrifying tale of growing old.  I saw it then.  It stuck with me.  

I don't make much of it.  I'm just saying, for a shut-in, it is nice just to be in the room, to not have disappeared from view.  And you, my friends, can say, "She was probably wondering if you were still alive," and I will laugh.  But Red wrote me just the other day to tell me she had a lovely dream about me.  

I'm not saying I'm not an old fool.  I'm just saying.  

This.  

The place was hopping. Two tall girls in short shorts and cowboy boots.  One of them had a movie camera.  

"Super 8?" I asked.  

No.  It was digital, but she did shoot Super 8, too.  It was Super alright.  Film and developing for two minutes and fifty-nine seconds--$85.  Wow.  I'd thought about it awhile back, but the price was too high.  

A girl in a miniskirt with fur trim at the hemline.  An Asian girl with electric green hair.  

A young hippie couple, college kids, sat at the table in front of me.  She took the seat facing me.  She was spectacular, long dark hair, a hairband, big hoop earrings with peace symbols inside.  I could go on.  I envied them as they chatted and laughed, she speaking loud enough for me to hear, looking, smiling, just to be noticed.  Cool kids.  

I never had the confidence they seem to have, never the sophistication.  I grew up on the wrong side of town with dumb MAGA kind of kids who would get in Einstein's face to show they could beat him up.  I look back with wonder at how my life progressed.  

I should write it--"The Secret Life of a Hillbilly."

Oh. . . yea. . . I think I do.  

More like, "Confessions of an Ignoramus."  

"You're a narcissist."

Ah. . . you've been infected with "therapeutic talk."  It has spread like Covid.  It's really getting around.  

 When I got back to the house, the re-handled sod lifter was there.  What the fuck.  I'd better try it out, I thought.  

It really works, but you have to put a lot of muscle into it.  It is a real workout, and by the time I'd cut through most of the garden, I was huffing and puffing and sweating mimosa juice.  

I went back to my mother's and made a Negroni.  We sat outside.  She drank a beer.  

Etc.  

I never did call those girls from Bike Week who wanted me to make pictures of them.  Miami still wants to make more pictures, too, but. . . . 

"There's no fool. . . ."

It is, for me, all visual.  Did I ever show you pictures?  Not sexual.  I only want sex with My Own True Love.  

"I'm not like the others.  I'm your friend." 

Oh, yea. . . and there is this one, too.  The trailer makes it look like something it isn't, though.  It is funny, but it is bleak.  Very.  

I'd recommend it.