A Tale Best Untold

"i better see you here for my last shift!!"

I took my mother to therapy yesterday.  The therapist did an evaluation and said my mother had made improvements in mobility and strength and was good to end her sessions.  With great uncertainty, my mother said, "O.K."  

When we got back to her house, she said, "I bet you feel like you've been cut free."  I didn't say anything.  Cut free from what?  Whether we go to therapy or not, I will still be there every day.  I'm not "free" of anything.  I don't think she gets that.  My days are broken awkwardly in two or sometimes maybe three.  My life is not my own.  I can't go anywhere.  My freedom consists of going to the gym, taking soaks and showers, and maybe, if I am fortunate, taking naps.  My life is a prison of concern and care.  I'm not complaining. . . . 

I'm complaining.  

I have invitations to go places.  T wants to fly me up to see his mountain homes.  I am wanted in rural midwestern towns, L.A. Yosemite, Miami.  I want to go back to Mexico.  My friends are all going to Japan.  I had to take a pass.  

I will soon be in the same condition as my mother.  I just read a report of a new study on the factors increasing your chances of getting dementia.  I have ten of the twelve.  

A guy at the gym asked me how my mother was doing.  He said his buddy was in the same situation as I.  He was taking care of his 99 year old mother with dementia.  The doctor said to him one day, "I have some bad news."  The bad news was her blood work and vitals were good.  "She may never die," he said.  

The boys were doing another happy hour last night.  I told them I would be late if I came at all.  I had to do things with my mother.  As six o'clock approached, I was sitting in the open garage with my mother in a lounger.  I'd fallen asleep.  I really didn't feel well.  

"I'm going to go meet the fellows," I said.  

"Don't leave me," she whined in a faux-ironic voice.  It isn't fake, though.  It isn't funny, and one day I'm sure I'll snap.  I'm just worn the fuck completely and totally down.  Computers, phones. . . everything has become a mystery to her.  Two days ago, she called me to tell me her dryer wouldn't work.  A bit later, she called me to tell me she fixed it.  The door wasn't shut right.  Both of these were messages she left, so I called her back.  No answer on either her home phone or cell.  Later, I was taking a nap.  I was woken up by the tenant yelling for me.  She has a key and had come into the house.  

"What the fuck!"

"Your mother is on the phone.  She said she's been trying to call you and can't get hold of you.  She's worried."

Stress is a factor.  So is high blood pressure.  Stress causes high blood pressure.  My bp is already unmanageable.  Social isolation.  Loneliness.  Being overweight.  Sleep apnea.  Daily fatigue.  I'm certain my new blood test will show I've developed new indicators.  Cholesterol, maybe.  

"Do you ever feel doubt about your self-worth?"

"Oh. . . fuck no!  I'm a freaking miracle."

This was the question/answer period at the doctor's, written, of course, part of the required psyche questioning the feds have decided to plague us with every time we get a physical.  

If they add "driving an old beater car" to the list, I'm sure I'm done for.  

So. . . I showed up late to the show.  We were going to go to my new favorite place on the Boulevard, but once again, it was closed off for another private party.  It isn't my favorite place anymore.  The boys had moved down the street to my buddy's new joint, a wine, beer, and food bar.  Six fellows were sitting at a table, an empty seat for me.  It was the BBC.  T.  Alain.  Alain's buddy.  The shock jock and his buddy.  And a new addition, a retired federal court judge.  

Greetings.  

"I've told my buddy all about you," said the shock jock.  "I've told him stories."

"There are stories?"

"Oh, yea.  I told him about Gorgeious C.S." 

This was a reference to the last time we were at this place on opening night.  Not bad.  

"Yea. . . I might have been once long ago," I said to his buddy.  

The waitress came over, all sweet eyes and bright smile.  She was a confident sort, the kind who looked at people directly.  

"Hi.  Can I bring you something?"

The boys were only being "helpful."  

"Uh. . . I'm going to need a moment."  

She laid a hand on my shoulder and said, "Sure.  I'll come back in a minute."

The place was packed to the ceiling.  The walls are brick, the floor concrete, and there is no baffling of the noise.  The place looks nice, all exotic stuff from the far east, but it is impossible to hear anyone speak.  Since my surgeries after the accident, my vocal cords are shot, and when I try to speak over the room noise, they just won't.  It is embarrassing, so I mostly sit, listen, and nod.  

"What's up, Wild Man?  Why are you so quiet?  Are you being grumpy?"

I just pointed to my ears.  "Too loud."

Everyone agreed.  It is not a place for intimacy.  

I looked around the room.  It was an old village crowd.  Everywhere I turned, I was looking into the town's history.  Everyone was someone.  Here was the wife of the dead citrus tycoon.  There was her grown daughter.  The fellow who owns the BMW dealership.  A lawyer stopped to talk to the judge.  He'd been appointed to the State's Space Board.  The governor. . . blah, blah, blah.  

The waitress came back.  The draft beer choices were not to my liking.  

"What are you drinking?" I asked T.  The place didn't have a liquor license, so we were limited.  I really wanted a cocktail.  

"Stella," he said. 

"O.K.  I'll settle for that."

When she brought it, everyone was ready to order.  No two people ordered the same thing.  Crab cakes.  A pressed duck sandwich.  Flatbread.  A High Flying Cuban.  Mahi on a bun.  I got the Fig and Brie Burger.  It was absolutely not what I wanted, but whatever.  

The food came, then the owner.  

"C.S.!" he said shaking hands.  I've known him for years, back when his band used to open for mine.  

"Jake," I said, "your waitress is top notch.  She is wonderful."

He nodded in approval.  

The shock jock told him the story of "Gorgeous C.S." from the opening night.  I am embarrassed and flattered at the same time.  I DO like him telling it, though, because it pisses off the other boys who all think they are Lotharios.  

"Yup," said Jake, "he is a village legend." 

O.K.  Fuck you.  I enjoy it.  And there is more to come, so give me a break.  It is all I have.  

When the waitress came back, I told her I gave her a sterling revue to the owner.  

"Where do you go to school?" I chanced.  

"I just finished taking my real estate course and I'm waiting for the results from the state exam," she said.  

T began the whole "Shaman" thing and the conversation turned to smoke.  She nodded and grinned.  

"He's got a freezer full of mushrooms," he said.  

"Oh, no. . . I can't do mushrooms."

"Why?" I asked.  

"I did them once and had a bad five hours."

"Me, too!  I was up in the middle of the night screaming into a pillow."

"Yes!  It is horrible."

"I know.  Everybody else is going, 'this is fun.'  So I tried them again.  Same thing."

"Me, too," she said with sparkling eyes and I could feel the bond growing between us.  I felt the heat as she leaned close to me.  We were seriously vibing.  

When she walked away, I said to Alain, "She can be our new waitress now that Small Hands is leaving."

"Yea, but this is not the place." 

"I know.  What are we going to do?"

A good waitress knows how to work a crowd, and this one had it perfected.  She brought the non-draft beers to the table to pour in front of the customer.  

"Why do you bring the bottle to the table?" I asked.  

"I was taught that it was proper.  It seems fresher, and the customer can be certain what they are getting.  I'm the only one here who does that," she said, "but I think it makes a difference."

It sure was going to with this crowd.  When the bill came, four of us threw our cards down.  The judge and Alain's friend had already left, and they left wads of cash.  When she split the check and gave me mine, I asked, "Is this already split?"  I'd had a burger and a beer and my share was $120 before tip.  I don't know what happened to the wad of cash, but I suspected it was going to the waitress.  But I didn't know, so my tip was "plus "25%."  

Not good.  I am unemployed and a pauper.  

As we got up to leave, the boys were all about saying goodbye.  It took me a minute more to get up, and as the boys headed to the sidewalk, the waitress touched my arm, looked me dead in the eye, smiled, and said, "I hope to see you again."  I mean. . . she had it down.  She was really good.  

It was a Wednesday night, but the sidewalk was packed as far as you could see.  

"WTF?" I said.  "It's a Wednesday.  What's going on?"

"Nobody works in this town," Alain said.  

Just then a woman got up from a sidewalk table, came over, and gave me a hug.  It was my across the street neighbor's ex-wife, the fellow who was dumped by the sixty-something year old woman.  His ex is much younger.

"Hiiiii," she said.  "It's good to see you.  I'm moving to Atlanta," she said.  "I met a man at a Solar Bears game and got married a couple weeks ago," she cooed in her very southern accent.  

"Oh. . . did you mean to?"

"Ha-ha. . . yes!  I'm very happy."

Just then, I felt two arms wrap around my neck from behind.  I hoped it was the waitress.  

It was T.

"What's up, dad?"

This is his usual schtick whenever a woman is around.  He introduced himself.  

"Hi.  I've known C.S. for a long time.  We used to be neighbors." 

"Well, enjoy your new adventure," I said.  "Congratulations."

The boys were off to say so long to Small Hands.  I'd already had the text.  There was no not going, "But I'm only having one," I said.  

The shock jock and his buddy rode with me, the shock jock telling stories about The Shaman the entire ride.  It was just a few blocks to the Irish pub, and we drove down the Boulevard.  

"What the fuck has happened?  I've never seen so many people out midweek."

When we got the pub, the parking lot was full.  

"I'll drop you guys off and try to find a place to park."

"No way.  We're going with you."

The boys always do this because there is a chance I'll just go home.  

"Hurry up, though, or I'm going to have to piss on your seat."

"Just get out."

"No!"

I decided to park in a No Parking zone.  The shock jock's buddy tore the sign down.  

"It'll be o.k." he said as he threw it over the fence.  

When we walked in, Alain and T were already drinking at the bar. 

"There are no tables," they said.  

Small Hands passed by me a couple times without notice.  

"What's up with that?" asked T.  "She's giving you the cold shoulder."

I just shrugged and ordered a Guiness from the barkeep.  

"I thought you wanted a whiskey," yelled Alain.

"Shit.  I did.  I forgot." 

Just then, two arms snaked around my neck from behind.  There was a soft whisper in my ear."

"You came."

"Of course," I said.  

T. was laughing.  

"I told her to ignore you when you got here."

"I didn't want to play along," she said.  "I honestly didn't see you sitting here." 

T had taken up with an off-duty waitress, a Melungeon who, as it turned out, was from the same Tennessee town as he.  Small Hands had shown her the photos I had taken of her already, and she said she wanted me to do some pictures of her, too.  I hadn't followed up for a couple of reasons.  But T was all over her.  

"She wants you to make some pictures of her," he said.  

"I know.  Don't encourage it."

"No. . . no. . . you've got to do this for me.  You are going to."

"I want to take photos of the barmaid," I said.  She was a severely pretty woman with incredible cheekbones and jet black hair cut in a 1920's bob.  

"O.K.  I'll set that up.  Let me work on it.  But you are going to take pictures of her." 

Small hands came to tell us she had a table for us in the back room.  It turned out to be for two.  The room was packed with college kids, but somehow five of us squeezed in.  The shock jock's buddy had to go.  

"He really liked you," the shock jock said.  

I just looked at him.

"He said The Shaman was really cool."

"I didn't do anything."

"You just are, dude." 

As often happens, he knew one of the kids at the table behind us.  He always knows someone.  So he turned around and started doing a bit with the kids.  I stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to see if I can move the car," I said. 

Then he turned to the college table.  "This guy's really cool," he said.  "How old do you think he is?"

"Fuck you," I said as I limped away.  

The parking lot was still full, but my car hadn't been towed.  

When I got back, T went to smoke a little boo with the Melungeon.  She was already pretty looped.  

Alain looked around and talked about the girls in the room.  He was infatuated with a girl who had curly hair.  She looked like many of the girls I went to college with, a little bit of a hippie.  

"I bet she wears patchouli," I opined.  "You've got enough money.  Go over and ask her if she has ever smelled the sea breeze blowing ashore on the coast of Zanzibar."

"That' corny enough it might work.  I wish my wife would die," he laughed.  "Just kidding.  It's an old joke."

"I think this generation is pretty transactional," I said.  "No judgement." 

When T and the Melungeon came back, she said she wanted me to take some photos of her.  Oh, shit.  I'd leave that hanging.  

"O.K. boys, I'm out."

So were T and the Melungeon.  

"Did you two figure out if you are related?" I smirked.  

"They probably are," chimed Alain.  "They are from Tennessee.  The family tree there only has one branch.  It goes straight up."

"She is Native American and Black, and so am I," T said.  "Probably."

Alain and the shock jock stayed.  They always stayed.  

"Now things will pick up," Alain cried.  "Things always start happening when The Shaman leaves."

This is true.  

"Where are you going?" asked Small Hands.  

"I'm out," I said.  She put her hands around my neck.  

"Keep in touch," I said.  

"I'll ALWAYS stay in touch with you.  You're the best.  Listen, I've been super busy with finishing school, figuring out where I'm going to live, what I'm going to do. . . so don't be mad that I haven't been reaching out. . . . "

"I've never been mad.  Do you think I was mad?  Look," I said motioning to her then to me with my eyes.  "I have to be careful.  I'm not going to be a creeper."

"No, no, no. . . you could never be like that.  You're the best."

 Blah blah blah. . . .  

"Look, I'll be coming back.  When I go home, I'm going to work out and get into shape.  I've started a business.  I'm selling vintage things, and I am picking up a bunch of stuff for us.  When I come back we'll make some pictures.  O.K.?"

"Sure," I said.  

"I love the stuff you send me, so please. . . . "

Now this is getting stupid, I know, but it is true and all I've got.  I'll be back to watching television and making dinners for my mother now, and there will be doctors appointments and house projects and the rest of what I've had for most of the last five years. . . so give me this.  

I have a plan to quit drinking again.  I've put some of the weight I lost back on, but not all of it, and I think I can reach my goal weight if I stop again.  I drink too much.  It is one of the indicators for dementia, too, along with the body fat, snoring, and blood pressure shit.  Not to mention social isolation and loneliness.  I'm not the "Gorgeous" man I used to be, and I actually never was.  There are plenty of gorgeous people.  I see them every day.  And I'm telling you. . . it ain't me, babe.  

But I sometimes can be smart and sometimes entertaining.  

Just not today.  I got a little pick-me-up last night and thought I might exploit it.  I know a lot of you are gonna be hating on me. . . but you should indulge me a bit.  Just give me a break.  I need it.  I REALLY need a break.  

Now I'll let you go back to your happy lives, my beautiful friends.  I have to get this day going so I can get over to my mother's.  The sun is shining.  The air is warm.  The world is turning 'round without me.