On Sunday we sat outside on the old canvas rocking chairs, listening to music and watching the baby play with trucks in his litter box full of sudsy water. I've been listening to Otis Redding lately. The cats were sitting by my feet with their ears up, watching the mongooses tiptoe through the grass around the avocado tree, while I enjoyed the view of the pasture, knitting a little Lake George-ish pullover for a small person. The man had a faraway look on his face. "Whatchathinkin?" "About our future. The brewery and whatnot." The 'our' bit surprised me - that I might be in someone's plans when I don't have any of my own. We rocked in the chairs for a bit. The baby splashed, a mongoose startled, the cats perked up. I said, "I don't see the future anymore. When you're young, you plan for school, marriage, a job, kids. After the whole breakup thing, all my goals disappeared. The life I signed up for was gone. I felt like I was walking through fog, there wasn't any point to anything. Now things have come together again. There are the kids, the house, the job, the illustrations. I can't look ahead anymore and see what might be there, because when that time comes it means that this thing is over. And I like this thing, right here, right now." And because I'm afraid. The changes I see are relapses, broken promises; heartbreak and lonely nights and visitation schedules. I can't imagine anything at all into my 40s. "Maybe it's because I'll get myself creamed on the motorcycle. I could crash a tricycle, you know. It's a special skill of mine." "Shut up, you won't crash." Well I will now that I've said it, I thought. Hopefully at low speed, into a bouncy house.
My mother bought a bigger bike this weekend, and the Rebel is now mine if I want it. It makes sense; my commute to work is only 3 miles, and gas has finally tipped over $5.00/gal. This is the bike that drove the man to his seedy rendezvous. In the intervening years, my mother rode most of the drama off of it, but I am not sure I want to make friends with it.
Failed romantic surprises
A hopeful young Romeo arrived at the library just before closing. Evidently he had decided it would be a FANTASTIC idea to get high on meth, put on a dressy outfit, ride his duct-taped moped across winding cliff-side roads for 2 hours, and show up at the library with his sunglasses on at night, hand hidden in his pocket, to ask the librarian, "Is there anything I can buy, or do, to make you open your cash register?" I picked up the wasp spray behind the desk and raised my eyebrows. "Do you need change for the pay phone?" "Yeah, but I don't have any money." "That is not so good." We had two people at the computers, looking up and mentally deciding whether they were about to be heroes. One of our regulars was leaving, and handed the guy two quarters. He went out, screamed into the phone, slammed it down, and demanded more money. A few minutes later he motored away wobbily up the road, dejected. The school athletic director came by to see if we were okay, having run into the guy a few minutes earlier. Seems the young fellow had come out to surprise a girl he was romancing on facebook, who was at home with her family and mortified, hanging up on his calls and probably blocking him from her friends list at that very moment. This squashed any plans I might have had about showing up someplace unannounced to declare my undying love. Or at least not while high on methamphetamine. There goes plan A.
On driving into the wilderness
The man bought a bigger car in part because our friends moved out to the sticks. It was not big enough.
And now we get to drive to town to fix the car. I will spend the afternoon trying on leather jackets at the Harley dealership. All we are is all we are, after all.
