What I Do
I had dinner last night with the area's most famous alleged armed robber. I brought the steaks and he cooked them over his little portable grill outside his hippie-fied earth berm dwelling while his hard working lawyer called thrice to gather facts and earn the 5 figures he will charge to free this most unlikely criminal of his most unlikely charge. Mr. BC awhile back gave me a bottle of Vodka hand delivered from Russia and this I also brought because the robbery happened in a liquor store and our friend of mistaken identity is understandably hesitant to enter such establishments until the case is resolved. The Vodka, brand Beluga, went down like reflected sunshine distilled from the idealized mountain spring. Or ice water that has never been pissed in, ever. That's what I'm going to say the next time I'm in a restaurant and asked if I want tap or bottled water. I would like the water that has certifiably never been pissed in I will say. I will notice that people ask me out to nicer restaurants with a diminishing frequency. What does that really fine Vodka taste like, ask me that. It tastes like liquid nothing, chilled. Perfect. How does it compare to a finer commercial vodka like Grey Goose? Try this. Eat seven spears of asparagus and wash it down with three black coffees. When you have to pee next, do it in a cup and then fill an eyedropper with the piss and measure three drops into a frosty cold shot of Beluga. Tell your guests it is Grey Goose.
I'm taking the rest of the day off just to celebrate surviving the unloading of a piece of furniture from a truck in which the driver was just a driver if he could get away with it (and until I slipped him a twenty he was going to get away with just being a driver). I knew I was in trouble when the guy said--there isn't any ramp. They had this chest of drawers in a cardboard box plus then surrounded by wood slats just like you see in the movies when cargo is unloaded onto the dock from a giant freighter. He said its not that heavy (but it was pretty heavy) and we would just slide it down to the ground from a distance that was bottom third of the crate at head level. I panicked briefly over the logistics and splinters of this not to mention pulverized toes and back gone out for good. Panic I think is always warranted but in this case just like many panic stricken moments not realized to their fullest portent(ial), a waste of time. Time is money but lately I don't spend much, charge much, or do much. At the restaurant when asked what type of water I want later someone will ask what I do. I'll say not fuckin much, what about you?
...more recent posts
Hastening Of Nighttime
What I love (and by love I mean hate) is when you (and by you I mean I) start acting all prescient about common reality like the weather. For example like last week, in early December, it was crazy warm, or perfect really, daytime temps in the 60s and 70s, and I remarked, yeah boy, better enjoy these outdoors because next week it will probably be cold enough to pee an icicle. Well, it is now next week and cold enough to get your tongue stuck on a flagpole. Stupid dumb.
You know, the highs are not so bad but the 5 day shows lows every night in the upper teens and twenties and that to me is less than desirable. Added to this is this--sunrise at 7:19 and sunset at 4:46 (EST). I mean is that technically even a full day? I would say no by the reasoning that less than half the 24 hour period is lighted. We tend to associate day with light and therefore it would make better sense to me if we just called these less than half-lit days what they really are--nights. We could still use the word "day" to refer to, for example, number of days in a year and other general time classifications that make day the more natural word to use, and that less than 12 hour part of the night would still be daytime but the 24 hour parcel of time itself must I think, for these winter months, be called night.
I mean why can't we work on this a little? We have already tried to rearrange time with the farce of Daylight Savings Time, which quite obviously saves not one minute of time but rather just shifts the numbers on the clock so that we have nighttime arriving sooner, according to our man made time pieces. If it were me I would call it Hastening of Nighttime. Perhaps there is too much of the foreboding in that but isn't "Daylight Savings Time" a bit too cheerful and optimistic considering what it really means? DST is to me, even as it happens in Autumn, the "really really" end of summer and much of the fun that summer includes.
You know, when you're a kid the end of summer is the end of August because that or the beginning of September is when you start school again and nothing harshes the mellow of and puts an end to summer like school. But as you get older and become a so-called adult there is nothing quite so handy as the school year to delineate for you the seasons and your subsequent moods and so you roam the deserts of depression, unsure of yourself, woefully inadequate to the tasks at hand, until one day you wake up, realize that the day is actually a night, that your mood if ill is as much for any reason that way because you had things fundamentally mixed up.
You're straight now though. You can roll with it. All night long, until spring, when days again become days.
What I love (and by love I mean hate) is when you (and by you I mean I) start acting all prescient about common reality like the weather. For example like last week, in early December, it was crazy warm, or perfect really, daytime temps in the 60s and 70s, and I remarked, yeah boy, better enjoy these outdoors because next week it will probably be cold enough to pee an icicle. Well, it is now next week and cold enough to get your tongue stuck on a flagpole. Stupid dumb.
You know, the highs are not so bad but the 5 day shows lows every night in the upper teens and twenties and that to me is less than desirable. Added to this is this--sunrise at 7:19 and sunset at 4:46 (EST). I mean is that technically even a full day? I would say no by the reasoning that less than half the 24 hour period is lighted. We tend to associate day with light and therefore it would make better sense to me if we just called these less than half-lit days what they really are--nights. We could still use the word "day" to refer to, for example, number of days in a year and other general time classifications that make day the more natural word to use, and that less than 12 hour part of the night would still be daytime but the 24 hour parcel of time itself must I think, for these winter months, be called night.
I mean why can't we work on this a little? We have already tried to rearrange time with the farce of Daylight Savings Time, which quite obviously saves not one minute of time but rather just shifts the numbers on the clock so that we have nighttime arriving sooner, according to our man made time pieces. If it were me I would call it Hastening of Nighttime. Perhaps there is too much of the foreboding in that but isn't "Daylight Savings Time" a bit too cheerful and optimistic considering what it really means? DST is to me, even as it happens in Autumn, the "really really" end of summer and much of the fun that summer includes.
You know, when you're a kid the end of summer is the end of August because that or the beginning of September is when you start school again and nothing harshes the mellow of and puts an end to summer like school. But as you get older and become a so-called adult there is nothing quite so handy as the school year to delineate for you the seasons and your subsequent moods and so you roam the deserts of depression, unsure of yourself, woefully inadequate to the tasks at hand, until one day you wake up, realize that the day is actually a night, that your mood if ill is as much for any reason that way because you had things fundamentally mixed up.
You're straight now though. You can roll with it. All night long, until spring, when days again become days.
I Don't Want To Discuss Anything
It's not that hard to help a stranger when that is your intention but that was not my intention this afternoon, so the idea of helping someone became a thing almost loathsome to my considering of it. My intention was to carry Bernadette across some god awful distance away from this bucolic overkill into the hell of a newly designed sprung out of nowhere steroidal enhanced strip shopping center, in America, between Gainsville and Manassas, VA. A place of so many stores spread out over so many acres with fake cobblestone on grids leading to more stores hidden away lining quaint main streets of a wild west town except without saloons and dry goods stores but instead the ubiquitous gourmet coffee houses and bread stores, that's right I said bread stores. All the vehicles angled into spaces look more or less the same and new and shiny. When you leave a space someone else is always waiting to enter it and I can't help myself from thinking of making a living selling parking spaces to manic shoppers driving SUVs that cost more than every house I ever bought. What, you are questioning my math? I'm a bottom fisher real estate mogul, screw you. My parking spaces cost ten dollars.
I wasn't there yet, I was still close to home getting my mail at the PO next to the cafe caddy-cornered to the 5star of the stars and heads of state which is located near me, but still, believe what I tell you, in the middle of nowhere, that is if you are the type to judge a place as somewhere by its propensity for having anything resembling activity and life form.
Timing may or may not be everything and I may possess some beneficial aspect of it but not so much that I'll ever notice. Honestly I don't think I have it much. And not at all on this day unless helping this guy get from one place to another is my assigned mission in life, which frankly what the hell do I know, it may be, and as long as I'm asking questions why am I so put out by this absolutely miniscule act of kindness to this man whom I suspect will remain, despite my frequent run ins with, a total stranger to me. We will trade names and short personal histories on occasion and it will mean little or nothing to each of us, except to him a type of leverage...oh there I go pretending to know something about another when I have barely scratched the surface of myself. Forget it.
I don't believe I was the only human coming out of the PO at the time but I knew he would collar me, people just do, wherever I exist, asking me questions that are none of their business like which way you going? I mean really, think about it, the nerve of that guy asking me which way I'm going. I could see Bernadette sitting there in the vehicle innocently waiting on me, probably bored but not yet to the extent that it was causing her ulcers, and I had no way to signal, have not even gotten to the stage in the relationship with her where she would know that signals might ever be necessary. If I rub my leg or pull my ear and nod my head that means to dislocate your shoulder and writhe in pain or otherwise according to your judgment pretend to be in need of immediate medical care and so, no sir, I can't take you around the corner or up the road to old man Mitchell's, I have to get Bernadette to the doctor, and furthermore, get this, I don't want to discuss anything, no, not a bit of small talk, not about the condition of my vehicle or the reason for you needing a ride in the first place or the fact that your own vehicle had the starter stolen from it. When was that anyway? 1959? You're not fooling me mister, I know the only running vehicle you have is that riding lawn mower, on which you travel considerable distances, even on the highway and that you are so much considered a local character that even the rather aggressive highway patrolmen (I of course mean patrolpersons) in the area leave you alone.
Poor Bernadette, look at her writhing in pain and this guy caring not a bit about it. Callous bastard. Where is this man's compassion? Oh, no, it's always about him and where he needs to go.
There's another guy around who uses his thumb and the road to Culpeper as his own personal transportation system and I fell for it once, I believe it was the first week I arrived in this area, something like three years ago. But he stank and his reportage of personal drama was of no interest to me. There, my selfish motives revealed. I still see him occasionally but I just drive on by, experiencing that pang that has no real definition, but feels less than clean.
Heading down the road though, finally, having dropped the guy off and trying to pull away politely while he goes on and on--I can only see his lips moving now that he is outside the vehicle--about how nice is the 10 year old Jeep I am driving. This is crazy it comes to me, going off forty miles to eat Vietnamese. It seeps in and out of my consciousness as we drive through this sparsely populated part of Virginia and it really bangs up against my head when we hit the first significant population and just like the riding lawn-mower guy who bums rides there are alternate days when such a thing doesn't bug me. But this is one of the days it does. People. So many of us with questionable aims. Out and about because we can't face the inside. Wasting gas and clogging intersections.
And I wanted to do this. You have to shop occasionally. There are needed supplies. We were going for some after eating Vietnamese. I like the Vietnamese place because it feels like something I own, and it comforts me that the man is always there. I go away and come back months later, three years running, and the man is always there to greet me with at least the appearance of sincere appreciation for my patronage. Do you think that would be easy? Do you think you could do that, and not appear like a faker? Yes I want chopsticks, damn right I do sir, it is here I got over my fear of them.
There is this thing that is coming to me about all this. This ridiculous but thank God only periodic angst regarding the routines of life. Because this should all be fun. Being with Bernadette I like and she likes being with me, but there are shoppers everywhere now in America, in throngs as aggressive as fish with teeth, a phrasing I use only because my spell check for the fish you know I mean won't show up. I was never in advertising but I majored in it as a college dropout and that would be my slogan to sell these programs that can't spell what I mean--Software As Stupid As You. Another one I like is Buy My Shit, Make Me Rich. You can have that one, its a gift.
It's not that hard to help a stranger when that is your intention but that was not my intention this afternoon, so the idea of helping someone became a thing almost loathsome to my considering of it. My intention was to carry Bernadette across some god awful distance away from this bucolic overkill into the hell of a newly designed sprung out of nowhere steroidal enhanced strip shopping center, in America, between Gainsville and Manassas, VA. A place of so many stores spread out over so many acres with fake cobblestone on grids leading to more stores hidden away lining quaint main streets of a wild west town except without saloons and dry goods stores but instead the ubiquitous gourmet coffee houses and bread stores, that's right I said bread stores. All the vehicles angled into spaces look more or less the same and new and shiny. When you leave a space someone else is always waiting to enter it and I can't help myself from thinking of making a living selling parking spaces to manic shoppers driving SUVs that cost more than every house I ever bought. What, you are questioning my math? I'm a bottom fisher real estate mogul, screw you. My parking spaces cost ten dollars.
I wasn't there yet, I was still close to home getting my mail at the PO next to the cafe caddy-cornered to the 5star of the stars and heads of state which is located near me, but still, believe what I tell you, in the middle of nowhere, that is if you are the type to judge a place as somewhere by its propensity for having anything resembling activity and life form.
Timing may or may not be everything and I may possess some beneficial aspect of it but not so much that I'll ever notice. Honestly I don't think I have it much. And not at all on this day unless helping this guy get from one place to another is my assigned mission in life, which frankly what the hell do I know, it may be, and as long as I'm asking questions why am I so put out by this absolutely miniscule act of kindness to this man whom I suspect will remain, despite my frequent run ins with, a total stranger to me. We will trade names and short personal histories on occasion and it will mean little or nothing to each of us, except to him a type of leverage...oh there I go pretending to know something about another when I have barely scratched the surface of myself. Forget it.
I don't believe I was the only human coming out of the PO at the time but I knew he would collar me, people just do, wherever I exist, asking me questions that are none of their business like which way you going? I mean really, think about it, the nerve of that guy asking me which way I'm going. I could see Bernadette sitting there in the vehicle innocently waiting on me, probably bored but not yet to the extent that it was causing her ulcers, and I had no way to signal, have not even gotten to the stage in the relationship with her where she would know that signals might ever be necessary. If I rub my leg or pull my ear and nod my head that means to dislocate your shoulder and writhe in pain or otherwise according to your judgment pretend to be in need of immediate medical care and so, no sir, I can't take you around the corner or up the road to old man Mitchell's, I have to get Bernadette to the doctor, and furthermore, get this, I don't want to discuss anything, no, not a bit of small talk, not about the condition of my vehicle or the reason for you needing a ride in the first place or the fact that your own vehicle had the starter stolen from it. When was that anyway? 1959? You're not fooling me mister, I know the only running vehicle you have is that riding lawn mower, on which you travel considerable distances, even on the highway and that you are so much considered a local character that even the rather aggressive highway patrolmen (I of course mean patrolpersons) in the area leave you alone.
Poor Bernadette, look at her writhing in pain and this guy caring not a bit about it. Callous bastard. Where is this man's compassion? Oh, no, it's always about him and where he needs to go.
There's another guy around who uses his thumb and the road to Culpeper as his own personal transportation system and I fell for it once, I believe it was the first week I arrived in this area, something like three years ago. But he stank and his reportage of personal drama was of no interest to me. There, my selfish motives revealed. I still see him occasionally but I just drive on by, experiencing that pang that has no real definition, but feels less than clean.
Heading down the road though, finally, having dropped the guy off and trying to pull away politely while he goes on and on--I can only see his lips moving now that he is outside the vehicle--about how nice is the 10 year old Jeep I am driving. This is crazy it comes to me, going off forty miles to eat Vietnamese. It seeps in and out of my consciousness as we drive through this sparsely populated part of Virginia and it really bangs up against my head when we hit the first significant population and just like the riding lawn-mower guy who bums rides there are alternate days when such a thing doesn't bug me. But this is one of the days it does. People. So many of us with questionable aims. Out and about because we can't face the inside. Wasting gas and clogging intersections.
And I wanted to do this. You have to shop occasionally. There are needed supplies. We were going for some after eating Vietnamese. I like the Vietnamese place because it feels like something I own, and it comforts me that the man is always there. I go away and come back months later, three years running, and the man is always there to greet me with at least the appearance of sincere appreciation for my patronage. Do you think that would be easy? Do you think you could do that, and not appear like a faker? Yes I want chopsticks, damn right I do sir, it is here I got over my fear of them.
There is this thing that is coming to me about all this. This ridiculous but thank God only periodic angst regarding the routines of life. Because this should all be fun. Being with Bernadette I like and she likes being with me, but there are shoppers everywhere now in America, in throngs as aggressive as fish with teeth, a phrasing I use only because my spell check for the fish you know I mean won't show up. I was never in advertising but I majored in it as a college dropout and that would be my slogan to sell these programs that can't spell what I mean--Software As Stupid As You. Another one I like is Buy My Shit, Make Me Rich. You can have that one, its a gift.
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.
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.
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.