The old morning routine just ain't what it used to be. I get up, start the most important meal of the day, coffee, do my morning ablutions, pour the brew, and sit down with the laptop. I check the weather app, then texts and emails. I open news. But I can't stand to look at it any longer. Until the nation turns against Trump and his allies completely, I can't. Trump dominates the news. It's not the news networks fault. I mean. . . what are you going to do?
A friend who works for an internet company texted me yesterday to tell me he has been instructed to talk about certain projects in code language. The company, he was told, is afraid that the Trump administration could look at their history of posts and use it against them.
This is other world shit.
Paranoia runs deep.
So. . . I have too many problems closer to home to manage. The HVAC repairman came to my mother's house in the morning. He said the trouble with the unit was a coolant leak. The pressure in the lines was about a third of what it should be. He could fix it for only. . . $1,900. My mother might want to consider just buying a new system.
She chose the repair.
I couldn't stick around, though. I had a luncheon date with my old pal, C.C. I haven't seen him for months. Hardly heard from him. People's lives. . . you know. We met at a "fancy" place and, as is our wont, sat at the bar. We were lucky to get seats. The entire restaurant was packed. The economy is bad, they say. . . but not at the top, apparently. We two hillbillies sat with the business class and ordered like we had the money to pay. We got the prix fixe of the day. Fancy name for the salad and potato cake. Soup, too, but it was an olive oil creamy eggplant concoction. Chicken something sandwich. O.K. I wasn't paying attention to the names. I got a big glass of Chardonnay. I was just anxious to start spilling my miseries.
"Oh, man. . . poor me. . . . "
You've already heard that one before.
And so we chatted with one another, the couple sitting next to me, and the barman while we ate. It felt good to be out, and after awhile, I was feeling almost "normal." Living in the wild.
"You know, I've only been out for two hours after dark in six weeks," I told C.C. I had thought it was seven, but sitting with my mother in the morning, I checked the calendar. Fuck. . . it seems like months.
Lunch came with a tangerine/vanilla soft serve.
Lunch was good and the weather was wonderful, but too quickly, C.C. had to go. He's going to his native land, he said, and wouldn't be back for at least a month.
Selavy.
Mid-afternoon. The sun was shining bright as it fell from its zenith, the highway fairly open and free. I decided to drive to the photo store. I needed to check on some things.
When I walked in, the big guy who'd asked about my cameras at the Cafe Strange called out, "Hey man, you're following me." The counter help all said hello, and I told them he was there to buy a brand new GFX camera.
"Don't let him see anything else. That's the one he wants."
The nice Mexican woman came over to help me. I told her I needed a strobe flash control. She took me down the aisle to show me. I could tell she was uncertain and a little confused. They weren't selling too many of these, I was sure. So we muddled our way through things, me opening packages to look and see, and we finally came to the conclusion that what I really required was something they didn't have. We asked the other fellow working there, and then we all agreed. Now, at least, I knew what I needed and was going to do.
"Arrivederci," I cried out with a big Marcello Mastroianni wave (try spelling that without looking it up), and stepped out into the sunlight, spurred on by the memory of life and of living. Fuck yea. I walked past a couple of cute girls on the sidewalk who grinned and gave me the eye.
The afternoon was passing, but I thought I had time to go for a cup of tea. The day was still pretty and the traffic still light. I headed for the cafe.
When I walked in, the young girlband punk rocker was working the counter. The place was relatively quiet. She smiled and said hello, and I ordered a jasmine green tea. Another girl who works there was sitting at the adjacent counter with the cook. She was futzing with a little point and shoot camera that she had just gotten. She looked at me and said, "You know about cameras, right?"
"Some things, yea."
"Can you see if I put the film in right. It doesn't advance."
She handed me the camera.
"You can open the back."
I did. The film seemed to be loaded ok, so I closed it and took a photo, but the film still didn't advance, so I opened the back again. I pulled out the film canister but the film was loaded in tight, so I twirled the film sprocket to tighten the lead and then stretched it out so that I could put the canister back in. The three of them looked on with serious expressions. Would the baby live?
When I closed the back, I put the camera to my eye and snapped a photo of the girl in the band.
Click, whirrr. . . . The film advanced. There was laughter and sighs of relief. Look at me, I thought. Look at me.
"I still want to make pictures of you and your girlfriend in some alleyway," I said to the counter girl with a newfound confidence. She smiled and popped her eyes and said yes.
I took my tea to a table. A tiny but striking girl sat with what I assumed was her boyfriend. She kept looking at me and then away. Like most of the people in this cafe. . . I mean, the place is oddly amazing, full of characters weird and stunning. I thought for the hundred thousandth time that I wanted to be a cafe photographer. Hey, now. . . that might be a good monicker for the website I will build and for the cards I will have made.
Cafe Photography.
Why hadn't I thought of that before?
Of course, Carnivale Photo wouldn't be bad, either.
It was getting late when I left the cafe. I needed to go back to my house as I'd left my stuff there and had things in the washer that needed to go to the dryer. As I was packing up to go, an attractive, middle aged woman in all black walked into the room uncertainly. She looked at me and grinned, then sheepishly pointed her phone camera at something hanging from the ceiling. She softly said, "I just wanted to. . . " and she took another photo.
"Everybody does it," I said. She looked at me again and grinned. She twirled around looking at the room, then turned back to me and said goodbye. With a twinkle in her eye, I thought.
"She likes me, of course. Today I am beautiful."
When I pulled into the driveway, I remembered that it was the usual hour for a cocktail and a cheroot on the deck. But that was a long time ago. Now I had to hustle, so I got my things together, switched the laundry, and pointed the car east toward my mother's. She said that I needn't cook for her that evening, that she was going to eat leftovers from the night before. I would just make some eggs and soup, I thought. It is a good and simple meal. I needn't stop at the store. But. . . just in case. . . .
The liquor store was on the way.
When I got to my mom's, the house was warm. The HVAC was repaired. I asked her if she was feeling a little lighter. She gave me the deaf and dumb grin. She had no idea what I'd said.
But the day had been good and dinner was good and the wine was good and there was whiskey. But. . . the old problems still remained. And some new ones as well. The driver's side door on the old Xterra has loosened from the hinges and will barely close. To fix it, the front fender has to be removed and he hinges replace. I'm sure that would cost a thousand dollars. Do I keep pouring money into the beast? I have a million dollars worth of old wooden house repairs to get done. And then there is the failing vessel that is me to be taken care of. Next week, a two thousand dollar gold tooth. After that. . . it's a crap shoot.
And so to bed and early to rise. The temperature dropped overnight into the thirties. Each day is a new challenge. But man. . . sometimes you can escape for a minute or two and dream a little dream.
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