Awkward Groove

I'll give you something other than illustrations of my photographs today.  Not everyone is as crazy about them as I am, I'm certain.  I came across this photo the other day on one of my hard drives and was stymied.  I couldn't for the life of me remember taking this photograph.  Where was it?  Who are these people?  Why did I take it?  It is hard to imagine.  Usually, when I see one of my photos, I remember the moment and the exact way I felt at the time.  I have total amnesia about this one.  I should remember precisely, though, as it is so distinct from the photos I usually take.  

It will come to me one night, I imagine.  

So I'm back online.  Nice.  It changes nothing, though.  I still have little to tell you.  

I did sneak out for a lunch yesterday.  On the Boulevard.  One of my old acquaintances' place.  It is decorated in the manner of his import stores with artifacts from across the Pacific rim--India, Thailand, Burma, Viet Nam--and has a definite vibe.  The Boulevard was packed with beautiful people.  It seemed like a holiday, but I realized that it was the return of the Country Club College kids.  It was move-in week.  O.K.  

I sat alone at the bar glad to be out.  I ordered a pressed duck sandwich from the very pretty bartender.  

"I don't think we have the duck today," she apologized.  "Let me check."

They didn't, so I got a grouper sandwich instead.  I wanted a mimosa, but that wouldn't go with the grouper so I got a beer, their "special."  

I sat back for a moment trying to remember how to do this, how to be out and carefree, a man open to adventure, but it was slow coming back.  I felt awkward.  I couldn't find my mojo.  I couldn't fine my groove.  

But it was o.k.  I'm a fine observer.  A crazy looking blonde with a Metallica t-shirt sat at the corner of the bar facing me.  The hostess, a young, punkish girl with a nose ring and the figure of a would-be model kept passing by and smiling.  A couple came in and sat a stool away from me at the bar.  The girl wore a short skirt and a lot of legs.  I think there might have been some boys in the room, too, but I don't remember.  

The barmaid brought the sandwich and the truffle fries.  It was too much food.  The sandwich was piled high with fried grouper, lettuce, tomato, so much so I wasn't certain I could bite it.  I cut it in two and squished it down.  First bite--oh, so good.  I picked up a truffle fry.  I sipped the cold beer.  O.K O.K O.K.  This was fun.  

As I was finishing lunch, I saw my buddy walk out of the back.  He smiled, waved, and came over to sit down.  As we chatted, his partner came over on the other side of the bar.  There I was, a friend of the groovy bar owners.  I was doing o.k., I thought, not too awkward, holding up my end of the conversation.  I was out of practice.  It had been awhile.  

The partner drifted off after awhile, and I asked my buddy, "How do you recruit your employees?  Where do you get them?"

I was asking because the were fairly startling.  They were not the usual strait-laced Boulevard types.  They were young Bohemians wearing whatever they came to work in, I guessed.  They matched the architecture.  

He looked at me and grinned.  "I don't know.  I have connections."

I'd known him since we were both playing in local hot bands, something he never stopped doing.  He still drums with a band that brings out the old village crowd, so yea. . . I guess.  

When I settled the tab, I limped out into the heat of the day.  I had errands to run and groceries to buy.  I would be making another pot of chicken soup for dinner.  

The heat beat me down and wore me out.  The beer could have had a hand in that.  It was two-thirty when I returned to my house.  I lay down for a minute in the cool air of the ceiling fan.  A minute turned into two hours.  It was nice to be home.  

When I got back to my mother's, she was miserable.  She said so.  It has been her constant state for a long while now.  There is nothing I can do to alleviate it, but I ask what I can do.  Shuffle shuffle moan.  

"Can you get me a glass of water?"

Chop the carrots, onion, potatoes, celery, garlic.  Olive oil in the Dutch oven brought to heat.  Stir in the vegetables, let them simmer and aromatize.  Chicken stock.  Water.  Chicken thighs.  Cover.  Make a Campari.  Sit down.  

My mother leaves the room.  She goes to lie in her bed.  The walker scrapes across the floor.  The afternoon has left me.  My body trembles with anxiety.  I decide to watch the rest of "Midnight in Paris," as I have only a couple hours left on my 48 hour rental.  But the Firestick is still fucked.  I have bought a new one, so I hook it up.  Setup takes awhile.  I sit and watch in anticipation that something will go awry.  I will be asked to input some password I don't know.  But no, the process is long, but it goes fine.  Ten minutes later, I put on the movie.  Negroni gone, I pour some wine.  I'm alone with the movie for a bit before my mother comes hobbling back into the room.  She sits down.  Moans.  Then she gets up.  She tells me once again she is miserable.  She can't take the air blowing on her, she says.  I have turned the ceiling fan on to mitigate some of the heat of cooking.  She goes to sit outside.  Alone again, I let the movie magic take me.  

In a bit, she comes back in and scrapes her way to the bedroom.  

The soup is ready.  It is seven.  My mother is asleep, I guess, so I make myself a small bowl.  Oh, my. . . I am good.  This soup is awesome.  Another small bowl.  More wine.  When the movie ends, "Cafe Society" begins.  I've seen it, but I can't remember it.  I can barely watch it.  Jesse Eisenberg is not well-cast.  He is almost impossible to watch.  And Steve Carell?  I'd forgotten.  But I can't quit watching Kristen Stewart.  

My mother comes back.  I ask her if she wants some soup.  I watch her eat.  She says it is good, but she eats little.  

She watches the movie with me.  It is not great but it is pretty.  She doesn't stay long before she goes back to bed.  I pour a scotch.  The end of the movie is almost profound.  It could be, but. . . Jesse Eisenberg.  What in the fuck was Allen thinking?  

It is a cloudy Sunday morning.  I will take a longish walk today.  I will go to Whole Foods to return an Amazon purchase I bought for my mother, then go to Home Depot to see if I can get lightbulbs to match the ones in my mother's vanity.  If not, I'll have to buy eight of whatever they have so they match.  Maybe I'll go somewhere for a mimosa.  Maybe.  

But now I will tend to my mother.  I will make some breakfast.  No cooking tonight, though.  There is a big pot of wonderful chicken soup.