I arrived just on time. The streetside tables were empty, but inside the bar was jumping. A work party, it seemed. I didn't see any of the other fellows, so I took a seat at a table for four in the low slung armless chairs facing the street but away from the setting sun which can be brutal at a certain hour. I'd been sitting only moments when Alain walked out from the bar.
"I'm trying to find out if they are serving out here. There's a party going on inside. The bartender is swamped."
I nodded, and again Alain was gone. It was pleasant, the air drier and cooler than earlier in the afternoon. Colder temps were on their way. I just let myself relax for a moment knowing I would have to leave early to take care of my mother. When Alain came back outside, he took a seat. Someone was coming out to take our orders, he said.
It was a fellow with short hair that was unimaginably pulled up into a tiny man bun. He had a short, shorn, face stubble and a tiny neck tattoo, and an accent I couldn't place. He lay down two menus, but we were ready to order. Two dirty martinis with blue cheese olives and a lobster flatbread. The chair, so low slung, held me perfectly, but it also put me in a position that emphasized my gut, I realized as people walked by. Whatever. I folded an arm across my midsection to hide my shame. Within minutes, the drinks had arrived. It was the same man bunned fellow struggling with the tray.
"We are usually served by a woman who comes out dancing with the tray in one hand held high over her head. She never spills a drop."
I was sure the martini glasses were going to slide before he set the tray down.
"Not me," he said. "I'm no good at this."
Obviously, he was a bartender, not a waitress.
"Your flatbread is coming," he said before he went inside.
The martini tasted like cold water.
"I'd forgotten how much I like martinis," Alain said.
Just then, a woman in black brought out the flatbread.
"You're our new favorite," Alain quipped. The woman's face lit up with a smile.
I picked up a slice of the flatbread, took a bite, and spilled half the lobster onto my foot. Slick. Just then, the Judge walked up.
"What are you drinking?"
"Dirty martinis that are clear as water,"I said.
"Well. . . I'm not above that."
But when the waitress came to take his order, he asked what kind of beer they had on draft. She started naming them, and the Judge commented, "How do you remember all that?" before he ordered something light.
"I thought you weren't above a martini," I scoffed.
"Maybe in a minute."
Just then, T arrived.
"Hey fat boy," I blurted. "How much are you weighing?"
Alain's eyes popped.
"I haven't weighed this much in a long time," he said.
"Good country living."
When the waitress came to get his order, Alain and I asked for two more martinis. The Judge this time decided to join us. T ordered a Margarita.
"I never think of ordering a Margarita until I see one," said the Judge.
Just then, the tenant walked by. It is her habit every sunset to take a walk down the Boulevard. She didn't notice us and I said nothing as she passed.
"Hey," Alain shouted, "Isn't that your Tenant?"
He didn't refer to her as the Tenant. The boys have a nickname for her that she doesn't like.
"Yea."
Then he called out to her. She turned and walked back, then grabbed the empty seat next to me. Of course she did. There were three affluent men, the Judge my age and distinguished looking, T and Alain younger, fit, and handsome. And then there was me, the fading Bohemian hiding his tub o' guts with his free hand. Still. . . you know, I have. . . character.
And so I was stuck in the crosstalk between Alain and the Tenant while T and the Judge were engaged in their own conversation. I sat back and watched the street as the blue shy turned purple then black, the girls from Country Club College heading briskly off to a yoga studio around the corner in their lululemon next to naked halters and briefs carrying rolled yoga mats.
Alain leaned over and whispered, "Dibs on the short blonde."
"No."
"You have to call 'dibs.'"
That one was new to me. He usually just says "Squirrel" casting us unflatteringly as dogs.
I glanced at my phone. Six. I needed to roll. The waitress came out to take orders.
"Do you want another?" asked Alain.
"No. I've got to get mom some dinner and meds."
Just then, giant Jareth came strolling up the sidewalk. The Tenant got up to give him her seat.
"I've got to finish my walk," she said. Jareth said something unremarkable and sat down as the Tenant gave hugs all around.
I sat a moment taking in the end of my day.
"You're a good son," said the Judge. "I've had to help take care of my wife's mother, just a little bit. I couldn't do it."
Everyone shared some caregiving story and agreed.
"Yea, yea. . . well. . . I have a very bad attitude about it, but it must be done."
"I'd say it should get you into heaven, but knowing you as I do. . . ."
"Well, which do you think is going to be more interesting?
"Right," said Alain. "All the gamblers and drinkers and partiers will be in hell."
It was funny to me to think about how people perceive one another. For all outward appearances, I felt the most angelic of the entire crew.
T got up to say goodbye. He'd come into town to see me, but we hadn't had a chance to talk. He was staying at a hotel in town and said he'd see me at the gym in the morning.
"Text me when you are going," he said.
Back in the car, my YouTube channel came over the speakers. It was the perfect song for this group of married ogglers (link). I quickly copied the address and sent it to the group chat. They'd be talking about the Russell Brand affair by now.
"There used to be a seven year limit," I heard the Judge say, "but. . . ."
These things are best only discussed with your intimates.
I told Siri to call my mother. No answer. Again. Again. Again.
When I walked into her house, the tv was blaring but she was nowhere in sight. I walked back to her room and saw her lying in her bed asleep. I called her name, but she didn't move. Again. Nothing. These are the unsure moments. I'd found my father dead in his bed so many years ago. One day. . . I figure she'll find me.
She woke up groggy.
"I'm going to get sandwiches," I said. BBQ or Chicken?
There are side by side chains a mile from my mother's house. I hate getting food from either of them, but I wasn't going to cook.
After dinner, I poured a whiskey and got onto the couch. A couple quick YouTube docs, then I put on "Avedon," the just released Ron Howard documentary that has gotten a ton of praise.
And the next thing I knew, I woke up to a blank tv screen. My mother wasn't around. I got up to make my nightly ablutions and take some meds for sleeping. After passing out on the couch, I had my doubts.
And so, there is that. I thought I'd try narrating rather than simply telling today. First person limited.
Last night in my semi-sleep, this song kept running through my head. I was dreaming to it. I think I have posted it here before, but I am not certain. If you decide to listen to it, do it with good speakers or headphones. It is well recorded in high fidelity stereo. That's a bit of a joke, I hope you know, but the steel guitar and the fiddle are nicely separated and well recorded on different channels. And I'm kind of crazy for the lyrics.
But it's up to you. As far as I can tell, nobody listens to the music, anyway. Or reads the blog, for that matter. That should please me, though, for who in 2026 would like to be introduced as. . . "and he's a blogger, too."
Ho!
No comments:
Post a Comment