Thinking Like an All-Star

There are days, I imagine, when Charles Barkley fantasizes about playing in the NBA again, about stepping out onto the court and whupin' up on LeBron James and Kevin Durant and Kobe Bryant.  He knows better, of course, but I'll bet he can't help but think it from time to time.

Red came over yesterday.  When she stepped out of the car so incredibly lovely. . . .

"It won't last, you know," I said.

"What won't?"

I did some quick math.

"The way you are now.  Somewhere there is a fourteen year old girl you will hate more than you have ever hated anyone at Abercrombie picking out a skinny pair of shorts.  She may be thirteen or even twelve, but you'll meet her in a few years when she is twenty, twenty-one."

"Well good," she laughed, "that gives me some time."

I don't like knowing that.  I hate the way I've come by that knowledge.

Red and I have made lots of pictures together now, and they are fine and good.

"Let's go to lunch," I said, and she was for it.

We ate at an elegant little Thai restaurant on the Boulevard.  I'd forgotten it was only Friday.  We chose a table on the sidewalk.  The sky was blue and a slight breeze was coming from the north.  I haven't been outside in the daylight for weeks.  We ordered pad thai and a curry dish and a couple of Chang beers, and she began to tell me tales.  I am a terrific listener, a truly interested one.  Stories have to be pieced together, of course, as the telling is partial and episodic.  But eventually, if you listen long enough, if you are interested enough and ask the right questions without opining or trying to tell something of your own, a narrative begins to evolve.

After lunch, we strolled around a bit, stopping into little specialty stores I never go into.  She bought spices at a spice shop and olive oil in an olive oil shop and soap in the . . . . I haven't lived like that for awhile.

When we went back to the studio, she asked me to open a bottle of wine.  And so we drank and made up some pictures and drank some more, and then it was time for her to go.  She had been hired to walk around in an outfit at a specialized convention.

"I'll be done by nine," she said.  "I'll call you and let you know.  We can go out for some drinks if you want."

"No you won't," I said.  "You will meet people at the convention and they will be going out downtown and you are not going to want to reprise all of this.  Onward."

"Well. . . I'll text you and let you know."

"You're sweet."

When you begin drinking at one in the afternoon, what else is there to do?  I went home, put on some music, poured a drink, and started working on the kajillion images I have to process.  Later, hungry, I went for sushi and sake, then came home to work some more.  Needing to kill any potential parasites, I poured the preventative whiskey, of course.

At nine, as promised, Red did send a text:  "O.K. It's sweet. I'm staying here."

I don't know how these girls start drinking in the afternoon and keep going all night long.  But they do. They are champs.

Sometimes, alone, I begin to think. . . but, of course, that would be terrible.