"Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes." -Walt Whitman
Saturday, October 04, 2003
first things first, third things third, second things second . . .
my apologies in advance, but this post contains some profane language. i try to keep it to a minimum.
first, it's probably too late, but best of luck to tequila mockingbird at tonight's fray.
second (third things on circle), there've been a few bloggers recently justifying/defending/defining their reason(s) for blogging. so here's mine. firstly, of course, i blog for myself. why else would i, in this day and country? i blog because i enjoy writing, and i enjoy sharing my slice of the human condition. secondly, i blog because i have a really crappy memory. no, really bad. worse. so that, through a blog, perhaps i can avoid telling angel another story that begins "i'm fuzzy on the details, but i seem to recall this time that . . ." and there are lots of stories like that. i have a very clear memory of walking through the back of an industrial park along some railroad tracks in the predawn hours, but i don't remember anything else about it. that kills me. i'm trying to avoid more memories like that.
lastly, i blog for my kids, and my grandkids. in this age of divorce and estrangement, this may be the best snapshot of me they get.
ok, third things are up.
someone once said to me and angel, "ya know, with some people, shit happens. what, does shit actively track you down?"
tonight, it did.
this morning i dropped off the pickup at ming's, three blocks away, to get inspected. incidentally, it failed emissions, and they plan to investigate on monday. i told them, keep the truck until they're done. those three blocks are about 100 yards closer to sea level than my home, mind you, so it's a hell of a lot easier to get from my home to ming's than it is to get from ming's to my house.
so the felon is back, and temporarily abiding on my couch. he's got a well paying full-time job, and is looking for a place to stay. but now, he's here. today he worked a half day, and the drinking started when he got home, around 1 in the afternoon.
around dinner-makin' time, he borrowed my bicycle to go up to the shamrock bar, to shoot some pool and hopefully meet a fellow drunk to share a room with.
so i made dinner (chicken athena, which was positively delicious; thank you, patty, i'll post it for all to enjoy later, and the fresh rosemary was ecstasy in a baggie!), consuming a bit of greek wine along the way, whilst anxiety took root in angel's guts and proceeded to mess with her appetite and slowly blossomed into a near-panic attack. shortly after the main meal was finished, i asked angel how the felon would get back into the house, in the event he arrived after we had retired for the evening.
whereon angel confessed that, in a stunning moment of "what the hell was i thinking?", she had given him her keys.
with the house key.
and all those other keys.
the key to my car...
the key to the pickup...
which was at ming's...
which was between our place and the shamrock.
...say it with me, people:
so i told her i'd go and look for him, and bring him home, so she could relax. and i did. down to the shamrock, about a mile and a half away. i walked in, spotted him at the bar. placed a hand on his back and in an uncharacteristically deep voice said, "pardon me son, but i'll need to see some ID, and you'll need to come outside with me please."
i could feel his bones turning to ice water under my palm. i confess, it was very satisfying. (kind of like how my brother must have felt when he approached the kids partying on his lawn with his doberman on a leash. he told them, "i can let him go, but i can't call him back." they drove off so quickly they left half their party running down the street after the car.)
once he realized it was me, and not the MAN, he followed me outside. i assured him i wasn't upset with him, and explained that his mom was quite worried, so i'd gone to check up on him. we returned inside, he picked up his beer, i ordered a seltzer, and we drank. i noticed two guys and one woman looking at us like a lot. i'm not sure if they wanted to pick a fight, or just wanted to know what the story was behind the young guy drinking quietly and the older out-of-place-looking guy with him. at any rate, the bartender decided it was time to ID the felon, so i paid the tab and we stepped outside.
actually, the felon stepped outside before me. i walked out in time to see him stepping into a yard bordering the shamrock. get this picture: this bar is across the street from a valet-parking type restaraunt. the felon is acting like we're back in the boondocks and he can disappear in someone's farm. i walked up to the fence and quietly said, "i hope you're just taking a whiz in there, cause you're doing a lousy job of hiding."
after several minutes, he fought his way back through the thorny rose bushes and re-emerged in the parking lot. i informed him that it was time to go home, and he should get in the car; i'd return tomorrow for the bicycle. he told me he'd meet me at the house, that he had business with someone in a few minutes. i told him that wasn't really an option any more. he squirmed. i didn't. he confessed he was afraid i'd get really mad if he told me what he was up to. i told him he has playing in my court now, and the rules were different, and he didn't have much of a choice anymore.
whereon he confessed that he had ridden the bike to ming's, tossed it in the truck, and driven the truck to the shamrock.
whereon i told him i kinda had that figured when i passed the truck in the parking lot upon pulling in.
i'll spare you the drive home. let's just say it's perversely satisfying when someone tries to BS you and you catch them with the BS on their hands.
i doubt he'll be going back to the shamrock. or borrowing keys. or looking me in the eyes for a few days, either.
at least until he moves off my couch.