Some People Must Go To Hell
I left the farm and came to Northern VA to facilitate with paint the separating of two feuding Jr. BC's.
Mrs. BC said of course eat anything you can find but when people say that they don't really mean it. I am eating every damn thing. I am not at all responsible for what people really mean. They, the whole BC clan, were barely out the driveway on their way to holiday fun before I devoured the two pieces of pumpkin pie. And ohmydeargod, there's whipped cream in a can. It can get away from you but cleans up nicely.
Mr. BC, a giant of business and active participant in the raising of three adolescent boys, can't seem to understand why I won't do the little things he asks of me, like photo-documenting a damn gazebo, and delivering a damn electronic device to a man who will never use it (and the man said as much when I finally did deliver it.) Anyway, I frankly forgot about the device, being as I was in full seasonal descent into a depressive state of hibernation and temporary loathing of humanity in its entirety. As for the gazebo, well, my neat little camera ceased to work the minute I drove over it with the Jeep. He's probably wondering right now, reading this, well, are you at least feeding my fish?
You are dear limited readership possibly picturing this giant of business type, with his palatial homes, one, gated in the burbs, one in the country and one at the beach, finding his much deserved relaxation with his hobby, exotic fish, which he cares for in a tank that covers a whole wall. But actually what you will find is a fish bowl in his bathroom with one goldfish in it. Mind you, the bowl is a bit oversized and the goldfish is getting bigger over time so as to imply an actual living fish instead of one of those neat little toy fish in a fishbowl which simulate fishiness pretty well without exuding all that other organic matter, and for my money....
I only bring all this up about the fish so that I can say, yes, I'm feeding it. However no would be my answer to your question--is he doing well, is he happy, does he move around his cloudy bowl with happy reckless abandon? Do you think he misses me?
On a more cheerful note let me say this--I haven't killed the cats, yet.
In fact the cats are apparently warming up to me and for the first time in three years I have actually been permitted to pet one of them, FiFi I think. And while Pounce does not seem overwhelmed by his love for me, at least he doesn't cower in abject fear every time I enter the room. So that's some good news I think you will agree.
While we're on the subject of FiFi though I should like to ask is it normal for a big tuft of hair to be sticking out like something you are tempted to remove but in my case won't because I'm afraid of an arterial spurting over carpet and walls or the other thing I imagined possible was the deflating and whizzing about the room of a cat shaped air balloon?
Actually, don't worry about any of these things. Today is your day for feasting and relaxation with family and I know you never get a break from work because I can to my right see the middle one of your three gigantic flat panel moniters and it is keeping a running total of only one of your email inboxes and it shows this morning a total of 159 for the last two days or so. You may be the only person I know who gets more personal/business email in a day than spam, although I'm sure in many cases the difference between those two categories is nominal. You should tell some of those people to go to hell.
...more recent posts
What Jules Verns Said
If what Jules Verne said is true, that--"Anything one man can imagine, other men can make real," then I would like to proclaim that I can hardly imagine a statement with more horrifying implication.
For example I imagined this morning being tried as a mass murderer in a court of law run by giant pissed off mice. That is, the courtroom gallery was full of giant pissed off mice whereas the ruling body of the courtroom, the judge and the prosecution team and my own defense team, were rather placid in their demeanors. This placidity combined with the English barrister wigs they wore atop their heads added an element of reality to the rather un-real and absurd scene of a courtroom run by mice.
In the gallery I could see the ones that got away, damning me with their presence as sure as any ace mouse prosecutor ever could. They all sat together: that one missing its tail, and that one its arm, and that one most of its hindquarter. And oh my god, look at the bent and mangled snout on that one. As if these exhibits were not enough, the eight foot tall carved wooden doors at the back of the room burst open and the most damning exhibit of all came to our attention. A mouse lying on a spring trap retrofitted with wheels, its midsection harshly folded by the spring bar, an oxygen mask over its whiskered face and the tank strapped hinder. An IV fluid bottle hung from an attached vertical rod front and center. The mouse propelled itself with two sticks used like oars. To their bottoms were attached rubber pads for gripping.
There's really only one way to escape this Jules Verne-ian nightmare of imagined potential and that is to just stop the imagining. I mean come on, if you can't imagine anything better than that.../if you can't say something nice.../think orchids, not onions.
But you know, I can't help imagining what I would be like up there, on the stand, in the seat, given the chance to. Would I be the belligerent dictator-type, cussing my captors and declaring myself superior in all ways, that my killing was justified? Would I scream that MY god had given me dominion over all you little insignificant, disease carrying, rodent bitches? Or would I blame it on my superior officers? I was just doing as ordered I would say as melee broke out in the courtroom, traps smeared with peanut butter flying like V-2s across great distance and some landing near me, their clicking explosions sending dabs of peanut butter in arcs across my vision, and others, the direct hits, clamping shut on my girly-long hair, my ear lobes, my eye lids, and finally, to the ecstatic cheering of all, the trap that clamps shut on my nose. When I look over at the mouse judge he is solemnly shaking his head. I've heard enough, he says, duct tape shut the mouth of that fulminator, and let's see what thunder now comes forth?
If what Jules Verne said is true, that--"Anything one man can imagine, other men can make real," then I would like to proclaim that I can hardly imagine a statement with more horrifying implication.
For example I imagined this morning being tried as a mass murderer in a court of law run by giant pissed off mice. That is, the courtroom gallery was full of giant pissed off mice whereas the ruling body of the courtroom, the judge and the prosecution team and my own defense team, were rather placid in their demeanors. This placidity combined with the English barrister wigs they wore atop their heads added an element of reality to the rather un-real and absurd scene of a courtroom run by mice.
In the gallery I could see the ones that got away, damning me with their presence as sure as any ace mouse prosecutor ever could. They all sat together: that one missing its tail, and that one its arm, and that one most of its hindquarter. And oh my god, look at the bent and mangled snout on that one. As if these exhibits were not enough, the eight foot tall carved wooden doors at the back of the room burst open and the most damning exhibit of all came to our attention. A mouse lying on a spring trap retrofitted with wheels, its midsection harshly folded by the spring bar, an oxygen mask over its whiskered face and the tank strapped hinder. An IV fluid bottle hung from an attached vertical rod front and center. The mouse propelled itself with two sticks used like oars. To their bottoms were attached rubber pads for gripping.
There's really only one way to escape this Jules Verne-ian nightmare of imagined potential and that is to just stop the imagining. I mean come on, if you can't imagine anything better than that.../if you can't say something nice.../think orchids, not onions.
But you know, I can't help imagining what I would be like up there, on the stand, in the seat, given the chance to. Would I be the belligerent dictator-type, cussing my captors and declaring myself superior in all ways, that my killing was justified? Would I scream that MY god had given me dominion over all you little insignificant, disease carrying, rodent bitches? Or would I blame it on my superior officers? I was just doing as ordered I would say as melee broke out in the courtroom, traps smeared with peanut butter flying like V-2s across great distance and some landing near me, their clicking explosions sending dabs of peanut butter in arcs across my vision, and others, the direct hits, clamping shut on my girly-long hair, my ear lobes, my eye lids, and finally, to the ecstatic cheering of all, the trap that clamps shut on my nose. When I look over at the mouse judge he is solemnly shaking his head. I've heard enough, he says, duct tape shut the mouth of that fulminator, and let's see what thunder now comes forth?
Where I Live
Five months ago I returned here to Mt. Pleasant from New Orleans and during that time an ambitious project was occurring which required that workers from the city stay in the cottage of yours truly, the caretaker. The project included some moving of dirt around and some plantings, the building of a stone wall or two and a gazebo with attached fireplace and adjacent bocce court.
I lived in the bighouse during that time and although it is not without its charm the bighouse is no place for a caretaker. So I have moved back into the cottage this weekend, after some cleaning and airing out and the moving of my bed to the room across the hall, which now gives me clear view of the long gravel driveway so that I can shoot the air out of your tires if you approach without invitation, and there is better light in the room across the hall, so that I don't suffer from the ills of sunlight deprivation and descend into a spiral of madness and crotchety behaviour, even as giving in to such would seemingly befit my station as caretaker.
And further, being now a couple of hundred yards downhill from the bighouse is a thing not causing me grief for this reason: the bighouse is haunted--there is in the night the constant clanking of heavy chains and ghouls dressed in moldy-smelling, tattered Civil War uniforms of both Confederate and Union stripe, roam the halls at night, gurgling insults at each other in a past dialect sounding part foreign and part recognizable. Fanged glistening black snakes the size of anacondas slither down the bannisters as morning light comes bringing what one would hope is a world less frightening. When dawn relinquishes her hold on night and accepts fully that coming orb too bright to see the snakes squeeze themselves most unreasonably under that sliver of space beneath the basement door and disappear, but still haunting as effectively in my memory as in fact, if the sensibilities of fact are even worth considering after five months of living in a haunted house, high on a hill in Virginia.
Five months ago I returned here to Mt. Pleasant from New Orleans and during that time an ambitious project was occurring which required that workers from the city stay in the cottage of yours truly, the caretaker. The project included some moving of dirt around and some plantings, the building of a stone wall or two and a gazebo with attached fireplace and adjacent bocce court.
I lived in the bighouse during that time and although it is not without its charm the bighouse is no place for a caretaker. So I have moved back into the cottage this weekend, after some cleaning and airing out and the moving of my bed to the room across the hall, which now gives me clear view of the long gravel driveway so that I can shoot the air out of your tires if you approach without invitation, and there is better light in the room across the hall, so that I don't suffer from the ills of sunlight deprivation and descend into a spiral of madness and crotchety behaviour, even as giving in to such would seemingly befit my station as caretaker.
And further, being now a couple of hundred yards downhill from the bighouse is a thing not causing me grief for this reason: the bighouse is haunted--there is in the night the constant clanking of heavy chains and ghouls dressed in moldy-smelling, tattered Civil War uniforms of both Confederate and Union stripe, roam the halls at night, gurgling insults at each other in a past dialect sounding part foreign and part recognizable. Fanged glistening black snakes the size of anacondas slither down the bannisters as morning light comes bringing what one would hope is a world less frightening. When dawn relinquishes her hold on night and accepts fully that coming orb too bright to see the snakes squeeze themselves most unreasonably under that sliver of space beneath the basement door and disappear, but still haunting as effectively in my memory as in fact, if the sensibilities of fact are even worth considering after five months of living in a haunted house, high on a hill in Virginia.
Getting Lost With Chic And Jade
I was recently squatting in the Moab desert behind a juniper as hundreds of feet away Chic laughed at me, out loud, clearly unaware that a few hours hence I would be attempting to rescue him and Jade from death by dehydration, them huddled and confused and lost within site of the highway, hoping but uncertain that Bernadette and I would coast efficiently on mountain bikes downhill along the highway into the town eight miles away and bring back the SUV, Gatorade, and Krispy Kreme donuts.
You get Chic laughing hard and you can kill him with it and all in good fun I thought I might like to do just that. If you are in a restaurant and someone gets up to use the restroom 30 feet away from you, you are not so aware or hyper-conscious of what is going on in there, but in the vast Utah desert surrounded by sandstone skyscrapers and crisp blue sky, a person a hundred yards away behind a juniper is something you are very aware of. The thing about being in a restaurant is you don't usually ask your fellow diners for toilet paper before excusing yourself. In the desert no one had brought any. I took the paper towel wrapping from the sandwich I had just been offered, said--my toilet paper has avocado goo on it--and walked carefully over the less than pristine bio-crust to take care of my business. The desert floor provided for excellent digging and I--as is my custom--left no trace (but for my obvious boot prints to and fro), and spent a little time creating a picture of natural desert nothingness, with twigs and dead vegetation and the swirly movement of my hand. I even found some wild rosemary near me and freshened up with it upon conclusion.
Chic was giggling when I got back because he didn't want me near him with the obviousness of my business so fresh in his mind. I predictably got up close to him and made him squirm and beg for distance. I was going in for the kill. I had a long sleeve t-shirt underneath my long sleeve button down and one of those under-sleeves I had used as backup to the avocado-soggy sandwich wrap. Chic, I prodded, while he cried out, no man, no, leave me alone, please. I said, come on man, look at me, just look at me, but he was recoiling and laughing, almost crying. When however he first chanced to look my way I caught him off guard with a provocative toying of my outer sleeve and he was so curious that he watched on as I inched the sleeve up little by little until I finally got to the ragged edges of my bit off and ripped under sleeve. When his mind clicked on the implication of the missing half-sleeve, he let out a burst--a hyper-ventilated cackle, and I then backed away from him, for I did not relish the idea of burying his expired ha-ha-self in that soft desert soil.
Chic provided small cigars brought by him from Miami and we lit up and followed Jade and Bernadette, coasting and peddling and puffing down the rocky mountain path, on rented mountain bikes, until we came to a steep hill, and then we got off the bikes and pushed them until we reached a plateau from which we could coast again.
Later we came to the unanimous decision that we were lost in the desert, and although it turns out we were not, exactly, lost, we were without water, and ten miles from town, and a couple of miles from the path we were supposed to be on. Jade's back tire was not holding air that well and this increased her work-load considerably. It was only a joke about wanting to kill Chic earlier and we all of us reached a point where there was no humor left but only a mild panic and a sort of distrust between characters like in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, only without the treasure. We back-tracked to the highway.
After Bernadette and I coasted all but the last of the eight miles into town we dropped off our bikes but not before almost stopping at Denny's for a mid-afternoon Grand Slam breakfast. That last mile was the hardest, which I bet is a theme I see repeated in life. I agreed to drive out alone so we could fit Chic and Jade and their two bikes in the rented Ford Freestyle SUV. Bernadette and I had already freshened ourselves up with Gatorade and Krispy-Kremes first thing returning to town but I was still a little cranky from the discomfort of that last mile. When Bernadette suggested I drop her at the nearest bar I barked out that I would do no such thing, for how would it look to our desperate friends, surely near their death on the fringes of Arches National Park, Utah, if to their shivering, huddled, dehydrated selves, and probably in need of emergency medical attention, that I announced that sure we can get you straight to the hospital, but first we have to pick up Bernadette at the bar.
As it turned out I could not find Chic and Jade. Had we really made it that clear where I should meet them? No, the more I thought about it, I don't think we had made it sufficiently clear. Chic and Jade were Bernadette's friends. I had only known them for three days at this point. Where are they? Bernadette would ask and I would have to admit, simply, that I could not find them. Would that really be my fault? I was hating this part of the vacation--the killing of the friends of my new girlfriend. I told you I wasn't a social butterfly, I would tell Bernadette. She might well argue that not being socially adept and killing someone's friends were two distinct categories. Not in a passive-aggressive way I would probably concede that point.
As I drove up and down the highway I just smirked at the little squeaking voices reminding me that--losers quit and quitters lose, and thought again about getting me one of those Grand Slam breakfasts, for a late lunch. Still, it wasn't much out of my way to try that one last driveway, and that is where I found Chic and Jade, alive, and to my estimation, a bit too happy and perky, and not even remotely near death, except in that same way that all of us are, every minute of our lives. We loaded up the bikes and drove on back to the bike rental place. Bernadette, not to be kept from whatever the hell she wants, had created her own bar, and was under the covered porch of the bike place, sipping a local micro brew and puffing the American Spirit.
I was recently squatting in the Moab desert behind a juniper as hundreds of feet away Chic laughed at me, out loud, clearly unaware that a few hours hence I would be attempting to rescue him and Jade from death by dehydration, them huddled and confused and lost within site of the highway, hoping but uncertain that Bernadette and I would coast efficiently on mountain bikes downhill along the highway into the town eight miles away and bring back the SUV, Gatorade, and Krispy Kreme donuts.
You get Chic laughing hard and you can kill him with it and all in good fun I thought I might like to do just that. If you are in a restaurant and someone gets up to use the restroom 30 feet away from you, you are not so aware or hyper-conscious of what is going on in there, but in the vast Utah desert surrounded by sandstone skyscrapers and crisp blue sky, a person a hundred yards away behind a juniper is something you are very aware of. The thing about being in a restaurant is you don't usually ask your fellow diners for toilet paper before excusing yourself. In the desert no one had brought any. I took the paper towel wrapping from the sandwich I had just been offered, said--my toilet paper has avocado goo on it--and walked carefully over the less than pristine bio-crust to take care of my business. The desert floor provided for excellent digging and I--as is my custom--left no trace (but for my obvious boot prints to and fro), and spent a little time creating a picture of natural desert nothingness, with twigs and dead vegetation and the swirly movement of my hand. I even found some wild rosemary near me and freshened up with it upon conclusion.
Chic was giggling when I got back because he didn't want me near him with the obviousness of my business so fresh in his mind. I predictably got up close to him and made him squirm and beg for distance. I was going in for the kill. I had a long sleeve t-shirt underneath my long sleeve button down and one of those under-sleeves I had used as backup to the avocado-soggy sandwich wrap. Chic, I prodded, while he cried out, no man, no, leave me alone, please. I said, come on man, look at me, just look at me, but he was recoiling and laughing, almost crying. When however he first chanced to look my way I caught him off guard with a provocative toying of my outer sleeve and he was so curious that he watched on as I inched the sleeve up little by little until I finally got to the ragged edges of my bit off and ripped under sleeve. When his mind clicked on the implication of the missing half-sleeve, he let out a burst--a hyper-ventilated cackle, and I then backed away from him, for I did not relish the idea of burying his expired ha-ha-self in that soft desert soil.
Chic provided small cigars brought by him from Miami and we lit up and followed Jade and Bernadette, coasting and peddling and puffing down the rocky mountain path, on rented mountain bikes, until we came to a steep hill, and then we got off the bikes and pushed them until we reached a plateau from which we could coast again.
Later we came to the unanimous decision that we were lost in the desert, and although it turns out we were not, exactly, lost, we were without water, and ten miles from town, and a couple of miles from the path we were supposed to be on. Jade's back tire was not holding air that well and this increased her work-load considerably. It was only a joke about wanting to kill Chic earlier and we all of us reached a point where there was no humor left but only a mild panic and a sort of distrust between characters like in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, only without the treasure. We back-tracked to the highway.
After Bernadette and I coasted all but the last of the eight miles into town we dropped off our bikes but not before almost stopping at Denny's for a mid-afternoon Grand Slam breakfast. That last mile was the hardest, which I bet is a theme I see repeated in life. I agreed to drive out alone so we could fit Chic and Jade and their two bikes in the rented Ford Freestyle SUV. Bernadette and I had already freshened ourselves up with Gatorade and Krispy-Kremes first thing returning to town but I was still a little cranky from the discomfort of that last mile. When Bernadette suggested I drop her at the nearest bar I barked out that I would do no such thing, for how would it look to our desperate friends, surely near their death on the fringes of Arches National Park, Utah, if to their shivering, huddled, dehydrated selves, and probably in need of emergency medical attention, that I announced that sure we can get you straight to the hospital, but first we have to pick up Bernadette at the bar.
As it turned out I could not find Chic and Jade. Had we really made it that clear where I should meet them? No, the more I thought about it, I don't think we had made it sufficiently clear. Chic and Jade were Bernadette's friends. I had only known them for three days at this point. Where are they? Bernadette would ask and I would have to admit, simply, that I could not find them. Would that really be my fault? I was hating this part of the vacation--the killing of the friends of my new girlfriend. I told you I wasn't a social butterfly, I would tell Bernadette. She might well argue that not being socially adept and killing someone's friends were two distinct categories. Not in a passive-aggressive way I would probably concede that point.
As I drove up and down the highway I just smirked at the little squeaking voices reminding me that--losers quit and quitters lose, and thought again about getting me one of those Grand Slam breakfasts, for a late lunch. Still, it wasn't much out of my way to try that one last driveway, and that is where I found Chic and Jade, alive, and to my estimation, a bit too happy and perky, and not even remotely near death, except in that same way that all of us are, every minute of our lives. We loaded up the bikes and drove on back to the bike rental place. Bernadette, not to be kept from whatever the hell she wants, had created her own bar, and was under the covered porch of the bike place, sipping a local micro brew and puffing the American Spirit.
First Lady Invasion
It's the oldest trick in the book but this wasn't the caretaker's first rodeo; it was Wednesday, all day long.
The first lady and 25 of her closest girlfriends came to town yesterday and with secret service agents and drivers effectively doubled the population of the little village 70 miles west of DC.
They ate at that restaurant across the street from the one at which the caretaker eats but not on Wednesday did he eat there because all day long he guarded the castle in his care against the marauding losers from the Washington Hill, lest they, the losers in search of new digs, uproot him from his own little hill. Even at his most inactive the caretaker is diligent, performing duties that may not have even existed the previous day. While others fawned and took pictures of the posing first lady a few blocks away, the caretaker hunkered down, letting no one pass his way, except the cleaning lady coming for pay, some Hispanic workers, a neighborhood cat, a dozen bush-eating deers, and two mice (who unfortunately committed suicide by peanut butter, so clearly unaware were they that the caretaker was back from vacation).
It's the oldest trick in the book but this wasn't the caretaker's first rodeo; it was Wednesday, all day long.
The first lady and 25 of her closest girlfriends came to town yesterday and with secret service agents and drivers effectively doubled the population of the little village 70 miles west of DC.
They ate at that restaurant across the street from the one at which the caretaker eats but not on Wednesday did he eat there because all day long he guarded the castle in his care against the marauding losers from the Washington Hill, lest they, the losers in search of new digs, uproot him from his own little hill. Even at his most inactive the caretaker is diligent, performing duties that may not have even existed the previous day. While others fawned and took pictures of the posing first lady a few blocks away, the caretaker hunkered down, letting no one pass his way, except the cleaning lady coming for pay, some Hispanic workers, a neighborhood cat, a dozen bush-eating deers, and two mice (who unfortunately committed suicide by peanut butter, so clearly unaware were they that the caretaker was back from vacation).
Shopping NYC
I had no reason to doubt the veracity of her statement, that the young woman had indeed stolen Lavinia's man, nor would I enter the ring of debate regarding the possibility that Lavinia's response to this (if she didn't like it, she could...) would be to kiss the other woman's ass. My feeling about this mostly, walking through the canyonlands of NYC and each and every time surprised like hell that perpendicular to the streets with no wind are often streets where the wind is blowing like a sonofabitch and the cold on those streets is biting and the swirling unknown needle-sharp particulate matter can and will inject itself into the whites of your eyes, is--I am afraid of that woman because she looks very angry and conquering, and, was I supposed to turn left or right at that last corner?
Hey, there he is, waving to me from across Delancey, I must be close. We find another place because the four tables at the first place are occupied and I only have a bagel and orange juice but he has a special that resembles in many ways the picture of it on a glossy menu. My bagel lacks the photogenic absurdity of his meal but it is delicious. I wish I had ordered ten of them although I probably would have regretted it after eating only three. I tell him, over breakfast, how many times I peed last night and that I hope this orange juice on a cold day traveling to Home Depot in NYC does not cause me grief. I am really quite the conversationalist. He explains in answer to my amazement regarding his history-term retention acumen that he learned it in high school, this term and that one. But after doing the math, what? He's talking about 20 or 30 years ago picking up a term and then throwing it out there over a runny almost too glossy breakfast plate on Delancey, perhaps near Ludlow.
Brinkmanship? How did such an unlikely term make its way to this breakfast table? What? I don't know, it seems like I peed eight or nine times that previous night.
The cab driver is milking the drop off point, even I know this. Inching up slowly in front of the Home Depot waiting for just one more incremental cash money click on the meter. Mr. Brinkmanship pays the bastard and then grouses briefly about it as we enter the store because the guy would not stop when he said, this is ok, right here is good, yeah you can stop now, your bills are not my bills, stop the damn cab so I can get the hell out, I'm on to your games mister!
While B looked for floor paint I roamed the store and made an impulse buy or two. Walking alone down an aisle stocked heavily with dangerous hand and power tools I came to a well hidden and locked case that contained the one item I really needed--a five pack of sheetrock knife blades. I interrupted a hidden cluster of employees and asked for help retrieving the blades. One of them led me on a search for the keymaster, laughing at me when I uttered a single word in what I guess she mistook for a foreign accent, and when we met, keymaster and I, he looked nervous, I think because he knew he had to ask me a ridiculous question before I could get me some blades. He had to see my ID. I showed it to him, begrudgingly, not because I really give a damn about the obvious ridiculousness of showing IDs for razor blades in NYC, but because my new license picture has me looking like I was baked in a hot oven for 35 minutes. He could barely stand to look at it and after the briefest glance he opened the cage and stood back from it so I could select the item I wanted. There were some pocket knives in the case and one of these I selected and opening up the biggest blade inserted it with a quick thrust into the keymaster's solar plexus. While he gasped his last breath I selected also the five pack of rock blades and moseyed on back to the paint section.
Outside the diner earlier while inside brinkmanship was being discussed a tired looking sad black woman cried upright on the sidewalk and when we came out she pleaded with me to feed her but I explained with a lie that I would not be able to do such a thing that day.
I had no reason to doubt the veracity of her statement, that the young woman had indeed stolen Lavinia's man, nor would I enter the ring of debate regarding the possibility that Lavinia's response to this (if she didn't like it, she could...) would be to kiss the other woman's ass. My feeling about this mostly, walking through the canyonlands of NYC and each and every time surprised like hell that perpendicular to the streets with no wind are often streets where the wind is blowing like a sonofabitch and the cold on those streets is biting and the swirling unknown needle-sharp particulate matter can and will inject itself into the whites of your eyes, is--I am afraid of that woman because she looks very angry and conquering, and, was I supposed to turn left or right at that last corner?
Hey, there he is, waving to me from across Delancey, I must be close. We find another place because the four tables at the first place are occupied and I only have a bagel and orange juice but he has a special that resembles in many ways the picture of it on a glossy menu. My bagel lacks the photogenic absurdity of his meal but it is delicious. I wish I had ordered ten of them although I probably would have regretted it after eating only three. I tell him, over breakfast, how many times I peed last night and that I hope this orange juice on a cold day traveling to Home Depot in NYC does not cause me grief. I am really quite the conversationalist. He explains in answer to my amazement regarding his history-term retention acumen that he learned it in high school, this term and that one. But after doing the math, what? He's talking about 20 or 30 years ago picking up a term and then throwing it out there over a runny almost too glossy breakfast plate on Delancey, perhaps near Ludlow.
Brinkmanship? How did such an unlikely term make its way to this breakfast table? What? I don't know, it seems like I peed eight or nine times that previous night.
The cab driver is milking the drop off point, even I know this. Inching up slowly in front of the Home Depot waiting for just one more incremental cash money click on the meter. Mr. Brinkmanship pays the bastard and then grouses briefly about it as we enter the store because the guy would not stop when he said, this is ok, right here is good, yeah you can stop now, your bills are not my bills, stop the damn cab so I can get the hell out, I'm on to your games mister!
While B looked for floor paint I roamed the store and made an impulse buy or two. Walking alone down an aisle stocked heavily with dangerous hand and power tools I came to a well hidden and locked case that contained the one item I really needed--a five pack of sheetrock knife blades. I interrupted a hidden cluster of employees and asked for help retrieving the blades. One of them led me on a search for the keymaster, laughing at me when I uttered a single word in what I guess she mistook for a foreign accent, and when we met, keymaster and I, he looked nervous, I think because he knew he had to ask me a ridiculous question before I could get me some blades. He had to see my ID. I showed it to him, begrudgingly, not because I really give a damn about the obvious ridiculousness of showing IDs for razor blades in NYC, but because my new license picture has me looking like I was baked in a hot oven for 35 minutes. He could barely stand to look at it and after the briefest glance he opened the cage and stood back from it so I could select the item I wanted. There were some pocket knives in the case and one of these I selected and opening up the biggest blade inserted it with a quick thrust into the keymaster's solar plexus. While he gasped his last breath I selected also the five pack of rock blades and moseyed on back to the paint section.
Outside the diner earlier while inside brinkmanship was being discussed a tired looking sad black woman cried upright on the sidewalk and when we came out she pleaded with me to feed her but I explained with a lie that I would not be able to do such a thing that day.
Slowing, But Not To A Stop
It was a handful of days ago that I experienced the disappointment only fully understood by the losers of this world. In fact, if you are not a loser it would be best if you just went about your reading elsewhere. Go on now, all you winners, beat it. I'm serious now, get out of here and go win some damn thing. And don't think you can read on and still be a winner, loser.
I was, that handful of days ago, engaging by email with Bernadette about travel plans, and to my understanding there was a wholly acceptable rash decision made on the part of Bernadette in NY and I went about preparing for her arrival by train into the Culpeper station that evening.
Crazy with anticipation I paused periodically to consider the bounty of my good fortune. I had only suggested she come that night instead of four days in the future and here she was doing it. Was I that powerful? I even considered the lower-case blasphemy of was I godlike?
The answer came that evening as I stood next to the pay phone on the side of the train station, looking off down the track in the direction of the distant New York City. I was worried about being late and had sped much of the way, passing slow moving cars and at one point forgetting to slow down for a sharp curve I had nearly careened off the road.
I wasn't there leaning against the side of the station wall for long when I could see the lights of the arriving 19 train, on its way to New Orleans but stopping briefly in Culpeper to let Bernadette out so I could drive her back to Mt. Pleasant. I looked in through the windows of the slow moving train, trying to appear cool and not overly eager. A conductor was leaning out the side of the train and called out to me for no reason I can discern except that obviously he had seen straight through my trying to be cool act and knew I was waiting for Bernadette to get off the train. The conductor at this point knew more about me than I knew about me. He had become godlike. He was talking to me and becoming smaller. He said everything I needed to know without actually saying the obvious (you are a loser son, go home).
The 5O? I called out to the increasingly becoming miniature conductor. Is that coming from NY? The now microscopic conductor responded--frrffmrfllle eit ienchenste, leaving me dumbfounded with the mystery of his unintelligible message.
I went back to the Jeep and considered a few different possibilities. At some point I realized it would not hurt anything to rule out the chance that Bernadette was still in NYC. To consider that I had simply misunderstood and that all my previous meanderings about being godlike were what they could only truly be--utter bullshit. When she answered her phone, which is not cellular, and although cordless, has only a range still well within the confines of New York City, I said hello. She said hello. She had no way of knowing my mistake. To her this was just an uncharacteristic phone call (we don't talk on the phone). I went ahead and made the redundant clarification, by saying, are you in New York? Bernadette said what she could only say, that she was, and, at a loss to understand the meaning of my question responded with--where are you?
I told her I was where all losers end up, watching a train that slowed down, but never stopped, pull away from the station.
Bernadette cooed some in a fashion meant to underscore a collection of realities that in sum total amounted to this--yeah I'm a loser and not at all godlike but that's ok. She would see me in four days, same train station.
I drove back on a pitch black ribbon of asphalt through a night as black as itself and arrived at a Mt. Pleasant that was strangely and uncharacteristically lit, porch lights shining and yard lights, with bulbs replaced and just hours before set back on their proper timing, glowing mutely.
It was a handful of days ago that I experienced the disappointment only fully understood by the losers of this world. In fact, if you are not a loser it would be best if you just went about your reading elsewhere. Go on now, all you winners, beat it. I'm serious now, get out of here and go win some damn thing. And don't think you can read on and still be a winner, loser.
I was, that handful of days ago, engaging by email with Bernadette about travel plans, and to my understanding there was a wholly acceptable rash decision made on the part of Bernadette in NY and I went about preparing for her arrival by train into the Culpeper station that evening.
Crazy with anticipation I paused periodically to consider the bounty of my good fortune. I had only suggested she come that night instead of four days in the future and here she was doing it. Was I that powerful? I even considered the lower-case blasphemy of was I godlike?
The answer came that evening as I stood next to the pay phone on the side of the train station, looking off down the track in the direction of the distant New York City. I was worried about being late and had sped much of the way, passing slow moving cars and at one point forgetting to slow down for a sharp curve I had nearly careened off the road.
I wasn't there leaning against the side of the station wall for long when I could see the lights of the arriving 19 train, on its way to New Orleans but stopping briefly in Culpeper to let Bernadette out so I could drive her back to Mt. Pleasant. I looked in through the windows of the slow moving train, trying to appear cool and not overly eager. A conductor was leaning out the side of the train and called out to me for no reason I can discern except that obviously he had seen straight through my trying to be cool act and knew I was waiting for Bernadette to get off the train. The conductor at this point knew more about me than I knew about me. He had become godlike. He was talking to me and becoming smaller. He said everything I needed to know without actually saying the obvious (you are a loser son, go home).
The 5O? I called out to the increasingly becoming miniature conductor. Is that coming from NY? The now microscopic conductor responded--frrffmrfllle eit ienchenste, leaving me dumbfounded with the mystery of his unintelligible message.
I went back to the Jeep and considered a few different possibilities. At some point I realized it would not hurt anything to rule out the chance that Bernadette was still in NYC. To consider that I had simply misunderstood and that all my previous meanderings about being godlike were what they could only truly be--utter bullshit. When she answered her phone, which is not cellular, and although cordless, has only a range still well within the confines of New York City, I said hello. She said hello. She had no way of knowing my mistake. To her this was just an uncharacteristic phone call (we don't talk on the phone). I went ahead and made the redundant clarification, by saying, are you in New York? Bernadette said what she could only say, that she was, and, at a loss to understand the meaning of my question responded with--where are you?
I told her I was where all losers end up, watching a train that slowed down, but never stopped, pull away from the station.
Bernadette cooed some in a fashion meant to underscore a collection of realities that in sum total amounted to this--yeah I'm a loser and not at all godlike but that's ok. She would see me in four days, same train station.
I drove back on a pitch black ribbon of asphalt through a night as black as itself and arrived at a Mt. Pleasant that was strangely and uncharacteristically lit, porch lights shining and yard lights, with bulbs replaced and just hours before set back on their proper timing, glowing mutely.
The Small Laws
I was coming out of the post office to get back in my illegally parked vehicle on a cold and rainy day and to my right coming out of the cafe was a steely-eyed highway patrolman with a rain condom on his hat and there was no getting around any of it. I was committed to the movements set forth when I parked illegally in the first place so I got in the Jeep and made another illegal maneuver, backing into the only 4-way intersection in a town with a population similar to a half-occupied Motel 8 but which is a county seat and therefore exists happily or not with a preponderance of troopers. I just try to blend in. I don't enjoy being noticed. I am feeling many of the emotions associated with embarrassment and social awkwardness as I back slowly enough to appear a doddering fool. No threat to anyone. Not worth your effort on a rainy day, sir. I was hoping he would just mosey on but he's taking so much damn time to cross the street, and not at the proper crosswalk, either. Of course that could be because I am jamming the whole intersection with my slow moving Jeep. I'm facing forward now, ready to propel through the intersection and drive back at 25 miles per hour the 5 blocks to Mt. Pleasant, where I don't bother nobody and I ask please not to be bothered. But he's just standing there so I pause and he waves me forward but I'm not sure about that so I wave him forward but he won't move so I inch forward at the same time he does. This is really awkward. To show my appreciation for the awkwardness of the moment I let out an embarrassed smile that unfortunately to my way of thinking comes out as a shit-eating grin. A toothy unabashed in your face--hah/stupid idiot. I feel inhabited by another, even more awkward soul than myself. In the end I don't even remember which one of us went first. All I know is you can't be too careful. Small laws are good laws. Have a nice day.
I was coming out of the post office to get back in my illegally parked vehicle on a cold and rainy day and to my right coming out of the cafe was a steely-eyed highway patrolman with a rain condom on his hat and there was no getting around any of it. I was committed to the movements set forth when I parked illegally in the first place so I got in the Jeep and made another illegal maneuver, backing into the only 4-way intersection in a town with a population similar to a half-occupied Motel 8 but which is a county seat and therefore exists happily or not with a preponderance of troopers. I just try to blend in. I don't enjoy being noticed. I am feeling many of the emotions associated with embarrassment and social awkwardness as I back slowly enough to appear a doddering fool. No threat to anyone. Not worth your effort on a rainy day, sir. I was hoping he would just mosey on but he's taking so much damn time to cross the street, and not at the proper crosswalk, either. Of course that could be because I am jamming the whole intersection with my slow moving Jeep. I'm facing forward now, ready to propel through the intersection and drive back at 25 miles per hour the 5 blocks to Mt. Pleasant, where I don't bother nobody and I ask please not to be bothered. But he's just standing there so I pause and he waves me forward but I'm not sure about that so I wave him forward but he won't move so I inch forward at the same time he does. This is really awkward. To show my appreciation for the awkwardness of the moment I let out an embarrassed smile that unfortunately to my way of thinking comes out as a shit-eating grin. A toothy unabashed in your face--hah/stupid idiot. I feel inhabited by another, even more awkward soul than myself. In the end I don't even remember which one of us went first. All I know is you can't be too careful. Small laws are good laws. Have a nice day.
Happy Anniversary
Mr. BC's parents are celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary this weekend, in Texas. BC loaded up the Mrs. and the children and headed on down there. What? In a Winnebago? Oh, no, no, no. In the private jet. They probably right this minute rustling up the kids and getting ready for a trip down to that most pleasant South Dallas part of town, where is located the State Fair of Texas. Oh, Big Tex, how's your mandible hanging this year? By the way, do you ever get crows stuck in your craw?
You know, if my mother were still alive and the BCs were stopping by to seek out her wisdom before taking three wild boys out to the State Fair, she would have told them not to worry about those three boys, they'll take care of themselves. She would have also most adamantly suggested that BC get the whole family a Fletcher's corn dog from the State Fair of Texas. My mama did love a Fletcher's corn dog. And no disrespect intended but she would be wrong about not worrying about three boys running loose at the State Fair. Oh my God, based only on the fading memories of my own nearly angelic childhood, I beseech thee BC, keep an eye on those boys at the State Fair of Texas. You get 'em a corn dog, maybe a cup of fries slathered in ketchup, some cotton candy, and don't forget to buy more salt water taffy than you can eat in three lifetimes, but don't let those boys realize their fullest un-supervised potential in South Dallas at the State Fair of Texas.
By now BC you are probably thinking well this is a hell of a sorry acknowledgment of my parent's 60th wedding anniversary. A brief opening mention and then nothing but a bunch of reminiscent blathering, based as far as I can tell on your own rather suspect pre-adolescent misadventures. Oh yeah, well maybe I'm working on the patience theme here. Maybe when I try to sum up in my own mind what best describes your parents I keep running into the same theme over and over, that's right, patience.
BC's mom, Mrs. J, having given birth to seven children of her own, certainly did not in her quiet moments alone fantasize about adopting an eighth child, but she got me anyway, and I lived practically all my daylight hours down the street at Mr. and Mrs. J's house (I had twin brothers just above me in my own home life pecking order, how you gonna blame me the escape). And the J's were a cutting edge family, ahead of the curve, and had a room in their house set aside for (or just overrun by, kids). It was called the Texas Room. If you lined the room up on a north/south axis, the part of the room that would be Amarillo, had a bar, and I mention as an aside that one of the strangest but true parts of my childhood is that we never touched the liquor in there. There was a bumper-pool table and then later a full sized pool table in the Texas Room. On the walls were framed prints of dogs playing poker. And the first place I ever saw one of those red plastic ostrich-looking birds that pecks at a glass of water, was in the Texas Room.
And as to my own mother's frequent queries about why I spent so much time down at the J's, I offer lastly, that the Texas Room had its own private back entrance, and offered us a facsimile of autonomy. And really more than just a facsimile once we sent that oldest J off to Notre Dame, and achieved our respite from his name calling (cream puff he called me) and force feeding of Zappa and Jazz and Zen. Oh sure I'm a little better off for the diet but really what the hell was up with that oldest J's attachment to all things Z?
To enter the Texas Room from the outside you came up the J driveway, veered onto the J brick pavers and entered a half-wall enclosed patio through a wrought iron gate. And this is where I get back to the patience theme, regarding Mrs. J. For years, I mean years, she would admonish, plead, scold, but never raise her voice or hit me upside the head with a stick (which is how I would have handled the situation) when she would happen to catch me standing on the bottom rail of the gate and riding it back and forth on its hinges. I barely weighed equal to a sack of feathers most of my life (ok, still) and perhaps she was discounting my behaviour because of that, but finally, one year, as I must have been getting close to a teenager, I saw in her expression the utter frustration of dealing with me all these years, and I decided to stop doing what was pretty much the only thing she ever asked me not to do. I just want to say, now, for the record, I'm sorry it took me 6 or 7 years to do what you asked. And also, while I'm being all gushy here, let me just thank you Mrs. J for never busting in on BC and I while we unraveled hundreds and hundreds of firecrackers for the gunpowder inside, which could have blown up your whole Texas Room, but which we used mostly only to propel miniature man-hole covers perhaps as high as ten or twelve feet in the air, out there on the cul-de-sac, in front of your house. Mrs. J, as I know you are one to embrace the concept of continued education throughout life I humbly offer to you these two premises--it is never too late to discipline your children, and, spare the rod, spoil the child. BC needs you Mrs J. When you hit him over the knuckles with the edge of a yardstick and he cries out, hey, hey, what the hell? you just put it to him straight, you tell him--that's for making bombs in the Texas Room, buster.
So how am I going to tie in the patience theme with Mr. J? Well in the end it will come back to an incident I witnessed a couple of years ago with Mrs. J being really patient with HIM, so it's a loose tie-in, but still, I can show his patience too, in the only way I can show anything, and that is as it relates to me.
I believe over the years I have been somewhat of a loose-tongued potty-mouth and here I'm not trying to get BC in trouble again (although if Mrs. J still has that yardstick handy, I would just give BC another hard rap right now, before you even hear what I say). As a year BC's junior the only way he could convince his friends that I was cool enough to hang with was to introduce me as a kid who could spew every word in the book. And he wasn't referring to the Bhagavadgita. I would spew for his friends a list that possibly pre-dated but nevertheless was very similar to George Carlin's infamous list of naughty words. This childish behaviour of mine would sometimes overflow into everyday interactions with other kids on the playing fields that were represented by Mr. and Mrs. J's backyard and an adjoining yard across the alleyway. So for years of football and baseball gaming it is possible, perhaps even probable, that Mr. J may have overheard me being a foul-mouthed punk, and yet he never gave me a what-for or a hey-kid or a knuckle-sandwich. And all the way down the roads of my life, especially when I may have ventured a bit off the main road, Mr. J has always treated me with what appears to be genuine respect. There were times when it made a real difference to me. As for his patience I can think of numerous road trips where Mr. J chauffeured BC and I around--to minor league baseball games, to the lake, on a guided tour of the Dallas Morning News where we met in person the poster girl for the Classified section, Heather, and giggled incessantly in her prescence--and Mr. J was pretty good about it all, hell, he was great to take us anywhere.
But really all of this previous blathering is just background noise to the anniversary theme. I mean what the hell insight would I have into the 60th wedding anniversary of BC's parents? Absolutely none. I can however offer an insight gathered from a time somewhere close to their 58th wedding anniversary.
BC's got the jet running, says let's go to Texas, I find an opening in my busy schedule and we go off together, visiting my mom briefly and then on to East Texas to visit his parents. The first night we have a delightful visit, watch a movie, and then retire. The next day BC and I and Mr. and Mrs. J meet BC's brother, K (they can't all be J's can they?), at a family style restaurant in a nearby town. BC asks if he can order chicken fried steak as an appetizer. Safe to say that is the first time in the restaurant's long history that they have been asked that but they bring it out for us anyway. Some of us order from the menu and serve ourselves from the buffet and we finish by ordering a number of desserts and sharing them. While waiting on the check, sated, daydreaming on a full belly, conversation at a lull, Mr. J (married to Mrs. J at this point in time for 58 years) playfully picks up one of the plastic butter containers with the peel off lid and tosses it at Mrs. J. She doesn't respond so he tosses another and then another. She just looks at him, neither angry nor encouraging, and the moment passes.
But to me that moment encompasses all what must be great about being married to the same person for 58, or 60, years. I mean what a great commercial for marriage. The playfulness after so much time together. Of course, this is from the male, or, buttercup throwing, perspective. As for Mrs. J, having buttercups thrown at her, well, good thing she's got that patience thing going for her. Happy 60 Jack and Joan.
Mr. BC's parents are celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary this weekend, in Texas. BC loaded up the Mrs. and the children and headed on down there. What? In a Winnebago? Oh, no, no, no. In the private jet. They probably right this minute rustling up the kids and getting ready for a trip down to that most pleasant South Dallas part of town, where is located the State Fair of Texas. Oh, Big Tex, how's your mandible hanging this year? By the way, do you ever get crows stuck in your craw?
You know, if my mother were still alive and the BCs were stopping by to seek out her wisdom before taking three wild boys out to the State Fair, she would have told them not to worry about those three boys, they'll take care of themselves. She would have also most adamantly suggested that BC get the whole family a Fletcher's corn dog from the State Fair of Texas. My mama did love a Fletcher's corn dog. And no disrespect intended but she would be wrong about not worrying about three boys running loose at the State Fair. Oh my God, based only on the fading memories of my own nearly angelic childhood, I beseech thee BC, keep an eye on those boys at the State Fair of Texas. You get 'em a corn dog, maybe a cup of fries slathered in ketchup, some cotton candy, and don't forget to buy more salt water taffy than you can eat in three lifetimes, but don't let those boys realize their fullest un-supervised potential in South Dallas at the State Fair of Texas.
By now BC you are probably thinking well this is a hell of a sorry acknowledgment of my parent's 60th wedding anniversary. A brief opening mention and then nothing but a bunch of reminiscent blathering, based as far as I can tell on your own rather suspect pre-adolescent misadventures. Oh yeah, well maybe I'm working on the patience theme here. Maybe when I try to sum up in my own mind what best describes your parents I keep running into the same theme over and over, that's right, patience.
BC's mom, Mrs. J, having given birth to seven children of her own, certainly did not in her quiet moments alone fantasize about adopting an eighth child, but she got me anyway, and I lived practically all my daylight hours down the street at Mr. and Mrs. J's house (I had twin brothers just above me in my own home life pecking order, how you gonna blame me the escape). And the J's were a cutting edge family, ahead of the curve, and had a room in their house set aside for (or just overrun by, kids). It was called the Texas Room. If you lined the room up on a north/south axis, the part of the room that would be Amarillo, had a bar, and I mention as an aside that one of the strangest but true parts of my childhood is that we never touched the liquor in there. There was a bumper-pool table and then later a full sized pool table in the Texas Room. On the walls were framed prints of dogs playing poker. And the first place I ever saw one of those red plastic ostrich-looking birds that pecks at a glass of water, was in the Texas Room.
And as to my own mother's frequent queries about why I spent so much time down at the J's, I offer lastly, that the Texas Room had its own private back entrance, and offered us a facsimile of autonomy. And really more than just a facsimile once we sent that oldest J off to Notre Dame, and achieved our respite from his name calling (cream puff he called me) and force feeding of Zappa and Jazz and Zen. Oh sure I'm a little better off for the diet but really what the hell was up with that oldest J's attachment to all things Z?
To enter the Texas Room from the outside you came up the J driveway, veered onto the J brick pavers and entered a half-wall enclosed patio through a wrought iron gate. And this is where I get back to the patience theme, regarding Mrs. J. For years, I mean years, she would admonish, plead, scold, but never raise her voice or hit me upside the head with a stick (which is how I would have handled the situation) when she would happen to catch me standing on the bottom rail of the gate and riding it back and forth on its hinges. I barely weighed equal to a sack of feathers most of my life (ok, still) and perhaps she was discounting my behaviour because of that, but finally, one year, as I must have been getting close to a teenager, I saw in her expression the utter frustration of dealing with me all these years, and I decided to stop doing what was pretty much the only thing she ever asked me not to do. I just want to say, now, for the record, I'm sorry it took me 6 or 7 years to do what you asked. And also, while I'm being all gushy here, let me just thank you Mrs. J for never busting in on BC and I while we unraveled hundreds and hundreds of firecrackers for the gunpowder inside, which could have blown up your whole Texas Room, but which we used mostly only to propel miniature man-hole covers perhaps as high as ten or twelve feet in the air, out there on the cul-de-sac, in front of your house. Mrs. J, as I know you are one to embrace the concept of continued education throughout life I humbly offer to you these two premises--it is never too late to discipline your children, and, spare the rod, spoil the child. BC needs you Mrs J. When you hit him over the knuckles with the edge of a yardstick and he cries out, hey, hey, what the hell? you just put it to him straight, you tell him--that's for making bombs in the Texas Room, buster.
So how am I going to tie in the patience theme with Mr. J? Well in the end it will come back to an incident I witnessed a couple of years ago with Mrs. J being really patient with HIM, so it's a loose tie-in, but still, I can show his patience too, in the only way I can show anything, and that is as it relates to me.
I believe over the years I have been somewhat of a loose-tongued potty-mouth and here I'm not trying to get BC in trouble again (although if Mrs. J still has that yardstick handy, I would just give BC another hard rap right now, before you even hear what I say). As a year BC's junior the only way he could convince his friends that I was cool enough to hang with was to introduce me as a kid who could spew every word in the book. And he wasn't referring to the Bhagavadgita. I would spew for his friends a list that possibly pre-dated but nevertheless was very similar to George Carlin's infamous list of naughty words. This childish behaviour of mine would sometimes overflow into everyday interactions with other kids on the playing fields that were represented by Mr. and Mrs. J's backyard and an adjoining yard across the alleyway. So for years of football and baseball gaming it is possible, perhaps even probable, that Mr. J may have overheard me being a foul-mouthed punk, and yet he never gave me a what-for or a hey-kid or a knuckle-sandwich. And all the way down the roads of my life, especially when I may have ventured a bit off the main road, Mr. J has always treated me with what appears to be genuine respect. There were times when it made a real difference to me. As for his patience I can think of numerous road trips where Mr. J chauffeured BC and I around--to minor league baseball games, to the lake, on a guided tour of the Dallas Morning News where we met in person the poster girl for the Classified section, Heather, and giggled incessantly in her prescence--and Mr. J was pretty good about it all, hell, he was great to take us anywhere.
But really all of this previous blathering is just background noise to the anniversary theme. I mean what the hell insight would I have into the 60th wedding anniversary of BC's parents? Absolutely none. I can however offer an insight gathered from a time somewhere close to their 58th wedding anniversary.
BC's got the jet running, says let's go to Texas, I find an opening in my busy schedule and we go off together, visiting my mom briefly and then on to East Texas to visit his parents. The first night we have a delightful visit, watch a movie, and then retire. The next day BC and I and Mr. and Mrs. J meet BC's brother, K (they can't all be J's can they?), at a family style restaurant in a nearby town. BC asks if he can order chicken fried steak as an appetizer. Safe to say that is the first time in the restaurant's long history that they have been asked that but they bring it out for us anyway. Some of us order from the menu and serve ourselves from the buffet and we finish by ordering a number of desserts and sharing them. While waiting on the check, sated, daydreaming on a full belly, conversation at a lull, Mr. J (married to Mrs. J at this point in time for 58 years) playfully picks up one of the plastic butter containers with the peel off lid and tosses it at Mrs. J. She doesn't respond so he tosses another and then another. She just looks at him, neither angry nor encouraging, and the moment passes.
But to me that moment encompasses all what must be great about being married to the same person for 58, or 60, years. I mean what a great commercial for marriage. The playfulness after so much time together. Of course, this is from the male, or, buttercup throwing, perspective. As for Mrs. J, having buttercups thrown at her, well, good thing she's got that patience thing going for her. Happy 60 Jack and Joan.