The problem with posting only once a week or so is that too much builds up. By the time I sit down to write, there’s just too much. There’s just no logical starting point.
I could write about yesterday morning’s breakfast, where I was handed the newspaper’s annual Best Of entry form, and asked by the waitress if I’d like to vote. The categories ranged from Best Asian Restaurant to Best BBQ Restaurant. Best Dessert. Best “Undiscovered” Restaurant. How about Best Place To Impress A Date? I called over the waitress and asked for some help. I haven’t been on a date in more then a decade, how was I supposed to answer such a thing? I was still under the impression that impressing a date was somehow up to the individual. I looked over the entry form for Closest Restaurant, but there wasn’t one. Too bad. The city could learn where all of its urban hermits are living just by adding this one category alone. Everyone knows that a recluse will only venture as far as the closest restaurant.
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And I suppose I could write about the woman with the sparkly green eyes and hair wisping around her temples, who I happened to meet when I ventured out for a bit of work. I think it may have been the first actual bid I’ve done in a month, it’s hard to say. Work has been slow. I’ve made sure of that. She and I walked around in the mud and light rain for more then an hour, talking about my work and hers. I had the feeling that both of us were lingering. I know I was. It’s always hard to walk away from friendly eyes. But without an outright question, there would be no way to know for sure what was on her mind. In the end, the interests of business were more powerful then the interests of curiosity. I gathered my necessary information, transformed her entire landscape in my mind so that I could filter out the costs later in the office, then settled for a smile, a handshake, and the drive home.
And, of course, I could write about the daily events of impending divorce. I suppose that could be therapeutic at some level. But I’m still recovering from the sticker shock of refinancing the house to know exactly what to say. The original plan, an excellent one that was set in motion about four years ago, involving high house payments, a committed couple, and the promise of a fast payoff, has been scrapped. What was only 11 more years of payments has suddenly turned into 30 years of payments. I tried cramming the idea of a $600,000 debt into my head, but the extra zeros kept sticking out my right ear and didn’t look right. But I suppose I’ll get used to the fact. It’s like torture. It’s all about endurance and effectively blacking out. But if I am to reclaim the house and the farm, move back into my home-based business, and have the peace and quiet of country life once again, I could come up with no other way. The alternative, and one that I thought very seriously about, was to walk away from all of the material trappings. All of it.
But for the time being, I’ll give huge debt a try. As I signed the loan application papers, I told the woman, “I’ll be 73 when I write my last check. Can you imagine that? Just think how proud and shaky my hand will be.” I signed and joked. Humor, as we all know, is an excellent way to hide that something is irritating the living hell out of you.
“Hey, did you hear the one about the wife who caused so much trouble that it cost the husband roughly $400,000?”
“Is this a joke?”
“I sure hope so. I was saving that money, you know. I wanted to buy a really fancy wheelchair when I was old and hire a beautiful private nurse.”
“Is that a joke?”
“It is now.”
Okay, I didn’t really have that conversation with my loan broker. No need to scare her before she’s done manipulating the paperwork. She works the magic, and I sign the papers. That’s all I really need to know. Anymore then that and it just becomes another damn thing to worry about.
Or how about the fight I saw at the roller skating rink. That was certainly an odd enough event to make excellent catch-up material. Apparently two 20-something women decided, during a children’s birthday party at the Sunday skating session, that things needed shaking up. By the time I looked over, they were busy punching and grabbing and rolling around on the floor, while a couple of guys tried to drag them apart. And then, once separated, they continued to lunge and menace. It was all very Springer-esque.
I’ve always had a penchant for observing, so naturally my skates guided me closer. The crying woman gathered her things and left with her family and friends, but the other woman, still resembling an enraged ox, was having a hard time holding still and keeping quiet, and kept telling the children of the birthday party “I coulda fucked her up.” Well, she wasn’t actually telling the children, but just bouncing around saying it to anyone who would listen. But I’m pretty sure if you’re a nine or ten year old kid, trying to eat cake and drink pop, that the words go straight into your head.
I did notice a couple of interesting things that may have contributed to the fight. Let’s see what you think. First off, the song playing at the time was Let’s Get Ready to Rumble. I wouldn’t have known this if it hadn’t been for my son. He liked the song enough that he forced me to ask the DJ, who popped a headset over my son’s ears to verify if, in fact, that was the song he was curious about. It was all too exciting for the boy. Between the fast skating, the idea of fancy new, inline skates, watching the teenage boys who worked there doing tricks and fending off young teen girls, and now this exposure to the inner world of the roller rink sound system, he was overwhelmed.
“This is where I’m going to work when I get older,” he stated. “I’ll start when I’m 14.” And this was without any knowledge of the earlier fight. I didn’t dare tell him or he’d want to punch in right then and there. The time clock, that is, not the angry ox-like woman. I outweighed her myself by 50 pounds, and even I wouldn’t have dared take a poke at her.
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But I suppose I’ll just end up writing about Imaginary Keith. I’m not even sure where he is right now, but I did get a phone call this morning. It was 4:00 a.m.
“I’ve been thinking about tryptophan,” the voice on the other end of the phone said. No one calls that early unless it’s an emergency, and I’d answered without thinking.
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about tryptophan.” It wasn’t until the voice repeated itself that I recognized who it was - Imaginary Keith, of course. Who else would be sitting around thinking of amino acids at four in the morning and find the need to tell someone about it?
“Are you aware of what time it is?”
“Sure, it’s six. Time to get up.”
“No, it’s not. It’s four in the morning, and it’s not time to get up. Not even close.”
“No, it’s six. You’re mistaken about the time. You know I don’t believe in time zones, and since I was born in the Central Time Zone, I will always function in the Central Time Zone, no matter where I am. Once you’re born, your body is just programmed and there is no changing it. There’s no getting around it. You know that.”
“You don’t believe in time zones?”
“Of course not,” Imaginary Keith said. “You wouldn’t either if you’d think the thing through.”
“Well, if you don’t believe in them, how can you defend your beliefs with them? That doesn’t make any sense. You’re not making sense. And why are you calling me so early?”
“You really were still asleep, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I was asleep and I believe in time zones. For me it is four in the morning.”
“Yea, yea, yea, and you’re also eight and think you have all the time in the world. Well, you don’t. How can I explain this to you so you’ll understand? Hmmm. Do you know what a lowest common denominator is?”
“I don’t have that much sleep in my eyes. Yes, of course I do. You know that.”
“Well, time zones are just lowest common denominators for people’s imaginations. We use them to trick ourselves.”
“How can time zones be a trick?”
“Do you remember the first thing you said to me when I called?”
“No.”
“You asked me if I knew what time it was. You were worried about the time. You, me, everyone. Everyone worries about time, and that’s the problem. You see, once people came up with the idea of time and strapped watches around everything, they were in trouble. Once we decided that time was important, suddenly nothing made sense. Time zones are all about the sun. The sun has to come up in the morning. It can’t be any other way or people get all bent out of shape. Well, most of them, anyway. So, in order to make sure the sun marched to the beat of our newly invented watches, people invented time zones. Now the sun miraculously rises for everyone each morning just around the same time. It’s all so neat and tidy that it just about makes me vomit. To understand time . . . no, wait, let me rephrase that. To convince our underused, under-imaginative brains that we were the most important element of the universe, we invented time zones. If you want everyone to feel comfortable, you need a lowest common denominator, so in this case, you get time zones.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“Of course I’m not kidding you. I never joke around about the important stuff. I wouldn’t call just to tell a joke. What’s the point in that?”
“So what is your point? I wouldn’t mind going back to sleep, you know.”
“I’ve had an idea that the secret lies with tryptophan. It’s the stuff in turkey that’s supposed to make you sleepy. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”
“Yes. And what secret are you talking about?”
“The secret of everything. The secret of happiness. The secret of success. The secret of a good night’s sleep. I don’t know yet, but I’m pretty sure I’ve stumbled onto the secret of something. Something big.”
“So eating turkey is going to be the one universal secret of the universe? Is that what you’re about to discover?”
“Listen, I’m going to hang up and call back later after you’ve had a chance to wake up. Go drink some coffee or eat some cereal or whatever it is you need to do. But wake up so you can listen. I’m going to tell you all about the secret of tryptophan and the mysterious power it has to control us.”
“That sounds, ahh, interesting. Okay, call me back. Besides, I have some things to tell you. In case you’ve forgotten, while you’re off prancing around the world solving the secrets of the universe, I’ve been here fending off the wolves. I’ve signed a few papers with your name, you know. You’d be surprised what a small boy can get away with in the financial world.”
“Nothing surprises me, K. Nothing.”