Just a Little Mania

Sorry this is late.  The internet is out at my house.  I will write about those travails when I am back up and running.

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I'll write tonight because I won't be able to in the morning.  Work will come too early then.  I must attend to "issues."  Supervising and all of that.

But tonight I had a touch of mania after a long and draining day at the factory.  And in a nutshell, it was this.  I walked into Whole Foods after a late night at work and then an hour at the gym.  I was dragging.  Still needing to shower and then to make my dinner, I was envious of anybody who had help in life, of anyone who, however occasionally, goes home to a dinner made or dishes cleaned or. . . a thousand other things.  Really and truly, tonight I'd had it and was tired of doing it all.

But walking past the meat counter at the grocery store, I saw an old woman stooped with age and arthritis and all else talking to the butcher.  Heard them, rather.

"Really," said the butcher, a young fellow about twenty-five.  "I'm from there."

I think they were speaking of New York.  Then the young butcher said, "My family's name is Artelli."

"Really," said the old woman in the sweater and the heavy New York accent.  "My name is Antoni."

"That's incredible," said the butcher with true vital.  "My aunts name is Bertolucci!"  I mean, man, there was real glee in it.  Then at the top of his voice he said, "Italiano, eh?  Forget about it!"

Hell, I didn't know what it all meant, but I felt I was in the old country.  I've been in Italy in the little towns and villages and have seen the kids all pierced and tatted up walking their grandmother's on their arms through ancient Roman streets.  And I will tell you--I was touched.

"Forget about it," I kept yelling in my head, and suddenly I was smiling.  I'd heard this sort of thing in New York all the time, and just then it brought me great joy to think about the wonderfully simple pleasures that I forget in life.

"Forget about it," I almost yelled as I was picking out my cage free eggs, the woman beside me looking at me surprised but laughing.

"Yea, yea, yea," I grinned at her.  "Forget about it."  And she smiled.

And then I was walking on the balls of my feet, bouncing like some Italian actor in a Fellini film.

"Forget about it!"

At the deli, I was still smiling when the tall blond girl with the Rastafarian hair asked me if I needed help.

"I don't know," I said looking at the deli case of prepared foods.  "I've never been here before when you didn't have the Asian beef."

"Oh, we ran out a little while ago," she smiled.  Just then a tall boy with a hipster beard and a bunch of tats said, "We still have some in the back if you want it."

"Sure," I said, and he brought it out.

"Good job," said the Rasta girl smiling at him.

"Here you go, boss," the boy with the tats said.

It seemed that everyone was dancing in the aisles.

At the register, the pretty nerdy girl rang me up.

"How's your day?" she asked.

I just moaned.

"Maybe we should leave your beer out," she said.

"Sure, let's open it," I replied.  The short young guy bagging said we should drink it outside.

"Do you drink?" the pretty nerdy girl asked him.

"Of course," said the young fellow.

"I mean alcohol," she clarified.

"Not so much beer.  More wine and scotch whiskey," he said.

It was getting to be a glorious night.

In the car, the radio was playing good jazz and the sky was turning cobalt.

"Stay happy, stay happy," I told myself, knowing I still had much to do when I got home.

The cat was waiting at the door having heard my car coming up the street.  There it was, of course.  My homecoming.

After a shower and after dinner, I watched the very last episode of "The Wire."  And I will tell you this.  If you haven't watched it. . . .  The last episode was the best last episode I've ever seen.  If you want to know what life adds up to. . . you will have to watch all five seasons and get to the finale.  But man oh man oh man. . . it is a great and wonderful job.

And so I sit here now, fed on the wonderful wholesomeness of the evening's grocery shopping and good vibes having viewed five seasons of one of the classic shows to ever have shown on t.v.  And two sheets to the wind on beer and wine and whiskey and now Campari, I bid you a good night and good morrow.  For the first time in many many many months, my weekend is booked.  The emptiness that is life will have to take a detour tonight.  I'm putting the final punctuation on this and am off to bed.  Goodnight, goodnight, good morning.