Hands on Your Knees

I think I will tell you about yesterday.  If you don't want to hear about it, you should hang up right now, 'cause that's what I'm going to do.  

Where to begin?  I made an ill-advised trip to the gym.  How about there?  Why, you ask?  Why what?  Why start there, why did I go to the gym, or why was it ill-advised?  I thought you'd already hung up.  

I didn't do much there, but it was too much, so I would realize later.  The pain in my left side neck, ribs, scapula, shoulder, and arm is excruciating.  But I went because I'm paranoid about. . . well, everything.  Fat old cripple man who got his hair cut and then changed his mind.  I don't let myself look into the mirror now.  And so. . . here's the thing.  Are you still here?  I'm going to tell you something that sounds like a cock's crow, but I swear to you, it is all true.  When I walked into the gym, it was pretty quiet.  Nobody I kibitz with was there, so I could just get on with it. I walked into the back room where I would do a workout for ninety year old men living in a home where twice a week they get rehab therapy.  Three people were in the room chatting after a spin class.  I walked to the back and started with a dead hang.  A man was telling the instructor about some other class he took. He was a real nerd of a fellow.  I like nerds, don't get me wrong. They are fine people.  But this guy was telling the instructor about the music.  There was one song called "Hands on Your Knees" that he really liked.  He went on and on about it.  And just at the end of my dead hang, he and what I assumed was his wife walked out.  I was laughing.  The spin instructor asked me what was funny.  I said, "I don't think that guy listened to the lyrics.  That song is really dirty" (link).  

Bend that ass over (Baow), let that coochie breathe (Yeah) Shake that ass, bitch, hands on your knees (Ho) Hands on your knees (Ho), hands on your knees (Ow) Shake that ass for Drake (Yup), now, shake that ass for me Bend that ass over (Baow), let that coochie breathe (Yeah) Shake that ass, bitch, hands on your knees Hands on your knees, hands on your knees Shake that ass for Drake (Yeah), now, shake that ass for me

Thus our conversation began.  

"I love your hair," she said.  I wasn't prepared for this.  She went on and on about it.  There was a mirrored wall, but I wouldn't look.  My hair is just beginning to grow out enough that it is a little funky.  Just. But you know how flattery works.  It just does.  She seemed to be interested in everything I said.  She wanted to know more about me.  She was an attractive woman, fit, and had two children, a boy and a girl, in college.  She was a physical therapist but hadn't worked at that for year.  She was thinking about teaching a high school anatomy class.  Her husbands said she should do it if she wanted.  See?  I listen.  I'm a good listener.  I don't like giving out much about myself except for when I am bullshitting.  Except here, you know.  I never bullshit here.  

Ho!

And so, after a long while, the pretty lady said she thought I was a very interesting fellow.  

"You're somebody I'd like to hang out with," she said.  I was kind of taken by surprise and didn't say anything.  What was there to say?  

"Oh, I can't really hang out.  I have to take care of my mother."

No. I just stood in stunned silence.  She gathered up her things and walked toward the door, then turned and said, "I'll see you here again," and told me her schedule.  The cat had my tongue, so I just nodded and said, "O.K."  

What in the heck does "cat had my tongue" mean, anyway?  

I just looked it up.  Odd.  It is of unknown origin, but AI guessed at many gruesome origins.  That's a strange one. 

Maybe that little conversation is why I did more in the gym than I intended.  I would lose weight and build muscle and be a handsome young man once again.  

"Once again?  Ha!  When were you ever handsome?"

C'mon, now--you know what I mean.  You don't have to be churlish. 

By the time I got back to my house to clean up, I knew I'd made a mistake.  I was in big pain.  The doc gave me narcotics, and I've been taking one each night with a shot of Willie's Remedy before I go to bed.  They let me sleep, but I don't want to walk around narcotized all the live long day.  I'm worried about weaning myself off the narcotic already, but a man needs to sleep.  

I was sitting at the computer ordering my mother some compression socks on Amazon when the phone rang.  It was the tenant.  My balls always shrivel when she calls.  It is always something.  But this was about a documentary she is making on an Olympic hopeful boxer who has a tragic story of murder and redemption.  She wanted to know if I was at my house.  She was coming over. 

What she wanted was for me to make some portraits of the fellow.  More so, she wanted to borrow a camera for making b-roll video. Of course.  I was miserable with pain just then and told her I would come take some photos, but I didn't plan on sticking around long.  I could barely focus, I said.  The pain is debilitating.  As we talked, I thought about what I would need to do to get prepared.  With great effort, I got up to rummage through my gear.  Batteries to charge.  I'd bring the Hasselblad, too.  Lenses.  Every movement brought more misery.  

The thing is, I don't want to make pictures for other people.  Now both he and she expect something.  It makes me nervous.  Anybody with a camera can do this.  There is nothing really required to be a photographer today.  Everybody knows how to take pictures.  But, you know, I'm going to be expected to do something else, something more meaningful and magical.  Some funkiness.  

So that is what I am going to do sometime today--take photos of the tragically redeemed boxer. 

The tenant picked up a book off the side table and asked, "Have you read this?"

"I started it, but I didn't think it was very good.  It got good reviews, but. . . ."

She read a page and said, "The writing is pretty good.  Listen."  She read a paragraph aloud.  Some of what she read was O.K., but some of it was too ordinary, so I said.  I repeated one of the sentences then rewrote it in what I said was a more beautiful way.  

"Yes, I guess that line. . . ."

"Take it from me, I fellow who writes every single day for no purpose."

"Why do you write if it is for no purpose."

"I just meant I don't write for money or fame.  But it does mean something.  It gives my life a structure, a narrative existence.  It let's me know more about who I am.  It helps give my life form and meaning, so I guess it does have a purpose, just not one a person would expect."

Just then, my phone rang.  It was an "Unknown Number," but it must be somebody I have called before or it would just go to voicemail, so I answered.  It was my doctor.  She has never called me before, so this was a little spooky.  The tenant stood up and waved a silent goodbye.  

"This is Doctor Schmaltz. I had a question.  Have you ever had a colonoscopy?"

"Yes."

"How long ago?"

It had been awhile. 

"Would you mind if I wrote you a prescription for another?"

Holy shit!  What was this about?  

"Did my blood work come back?  Is something wrong?"

"No, no. . . I was just looking over your chart.  That is what I do on weekends, go over patient charts."

Uh. . . it was Thursday.  This whole conversation threw me for a loop.  

I asked her about the medication she had given me in the office for my blood pressure.  

"I didn't see that you had sent in the prescription for that."

"I wanted to see how you did on it first."

"I looked it up. Seems that it can have an affect on the sodium and potassium balance,"

"The change in potassium is small.  It is mostly an issue with people who have kidney problems.  You have great kidneys.  They are really good.  That shouldn't be an issue."

Great kidneys?  WTF?  How would she know?  

"I'm fearful that your insurance isn't going to pay for this medication, so I am sending the prescription to a compounding pharmacy."

Again, I couldn't make sense of this.  They'd pay if it is a compounding pharmacy?  And I was still wondering if I had colon cancer.  

I thanked her for calling, then sat trying to make sense of it all.  Weird.  Just really fucking weird.  

I called my mother to ask what she wanted for dinner.   She didn't want anything, really.  O.K then.  Soup and salmon salad sandwiches it would be.  An easy meal.  But first. . . what I needed was a cocktail in the garage porch.  I had a lot to think about.  The pretty lady blowing smoke up my ass.  The weird phone call.  What I had to do tomorrow.  And, of course, the constant pain.  It had been a strange day.   But sometimes I have a strange idea that people, some anyway, still like me.  Old men, though, should banish all such thoughts, for they can only lead to some horribly embarrassing moments.  And I would.  I would throw those thoughts out.  Just not yet.  I'd sit with them and the cocktail.  There could be no harm in that. What could go wrong?

After dinner, and after the news, I put on YouTube for a bit.  I let the algorithms do their work.  I love hillbilly music, what is most often called "Bluegrass."  But for me, it is just hillbilly jazz.  If I were more learned, I'd make the case.  If you are not a fan of it, though, you can skip it.  

Hello.  Hello?  

I guess you've already hung up.