Fate Awaits Me

 I am not sure people pick up on the subtleties of what I post—a reflection of myself in the window of a Tattoo parlor under the title “Reflections of a Man Leaving Home.”  Did you miss it?  Doesn't matter, really.  Shitty pictures deserve to be ignored.  You probably have a higher I.Q. if you didn't notice.  "Special" kids always see things others miss.  They are irritating that way.  

I am in my home in the early morning for the last time.  I won't be sleeping in my own bed again.  My things will sit in permanent disorder as in a museum collection.  After I finish writing this, I will go to my mother's.  My cousin will have left early this morning.  To my face, my mother laments her leaving.  I'm sure.  I am not as much fun for my mother with all my high-toned concerns.  I don't enjoy going to Walmart to "look around."  I don't enjoy breakfasts at Denny's.  

Etc. 

But I feel the need to do more of that for my mother now.  Sure. 

This afternoon, I'll come back and begin packing my things for my leaving.  I will try to move in more this time.  I'll take some clothes.  I'll take some books.  I don't know, really.  

I met the boys for the farewell party last night.  My mother laughed and said, "A welfare party."  She is having trouble with words now, but this one struck me as funny.  

It wasn't a raucous night.  We went to a newish Italian place in an outdoor shopping mall in my own hometown.  It was an attractive place with a cavernous dining area and several bars opening up to covered patios outside.  On the wall was a giant painting of a woman's head and shoulders in a style I can't quite describe.  It looked to me as if the artist had painted it from a decoupage.  I thought it quite good and remarked how few places have the chutzpah to put up figurative paintings.  

We sat at an outdoor table and ordered every happy hour appetizer on the menu.  The food was excellent.  We ate and drank and watched the crowd as we kibitzed.  At one point later in the evening, a pretty woman stopped and said, "Well this is a table full of attractive men."  I was pretty sure she wasn't looking at me.  The shock jock, however, said, "Yea. . . but I still wet the bed."

"What?" said the pretty lady.  

"It's O.K., though," I chimed in.  "He uses plastic sheets."

And that was the end of that.  Nobody at the table blinked. 

"Good job."

I think I was the only person at the table who was even a little sad.  I haven't had a woman's compliment for a very long time, and even if it wasn't meant for me, it was fun to hear.  

I won't be anywhere, once again, to hear another until I'm on a walker, I presume.  Well. . . not from anyone under ninety, anyway.  

I'm going to need some Xanax to get through tonight.  Friday.  Party!!!  

Think of me when you go out tonight or when you are sitting in your own home with your own things.  Think of me when someone gives you a wink and a pinch or when they buy you a drink.  Think of me at happy hour or later over a sushi dinner.  You'll know where to find me.  I'll be there on the couch watching television with my mother ever in my peripheral vision.  

Now I must go.  Fate awaits me.