"O.K. boys, why don't you help your mother out and wash the dishes tonight."
"O.K., dad."
"David and Ricky are really good kids, aren't they Ozzie."
"You bet they are."
Sometimes I hand wash dishes here, but just like everything else I do, it is half-assed. They are never as clean as when they go into the dishwasher. Sometimes afterwards I'll find something stuck to a knife I just washed. And did you know that a dishwasher uses less water than hand washing? It is true. Use the Google.
I wish I'd have bought the old farm kitchen sink instead, but changing mine would be hard and expensive. My mother's on the other hand. . . .
Sometimes I think I'm smart, then I find out otherwise.
I said goodbye to T yesterday. As things go, closing on his house took longer than expected, so mid-afternoon, I figured I wouldn't hear from him about getting together. I was sitting in the cafe sipping on my lavender French soda--I couldn't believe it, but the counter woman working that day was not the one who made the last one for me, but she knew how to make them. When I asked her if she did, she looked at me like I was a fool and said, "Of course." Lavender was an alright choice, too. I will take a tour of all the flavors eventually just to see. I thought about buying the fixings and making them at home, but I decided against it. I'd make too many and burn out on them. No, it is better to go to the cafe to get myself a treat.
I was just writing all of that in my journal when my phone rang. It was T. 2:30 p.m.
"What's up?"
"I'm at that Cafe Strange sucking down a French soda."
"I'm on my way to pick up my checks."
"Why didn't you just have the deposit them in your account?"
"I've had them split the money up into four checks that are going different places, into different LLC accounts. Are we still going to get something to eat?"
"Man, I thought we were going to get together early."
"Yea, I got caught up. I got a room at the Hyatt. I have to hook the trailer up and take it over there, shower. . . I can be ready by six."
I hesitated. "That's too late for me. I've got to . . . "
"I know. Don't worry, it's O.K."
"You'll have to call Black Sheep."
"Yea, he's been blowing up my phone all day."
"I'll call you later on," I said.
I felt relieved in some ways. A long farewell dinner. . . .
After the cafe, I went back to my house to pick up my things--remember, I live out of a travel bag--and head to the grocers. I was making pho and I would have to boil the drumsticks for awhile. Then I remembered that T and his wife had given me an InstaPot that I had taken to my mother's. Oh, yea. I'd pressure cook them. Perfect.
It was four when I left my house. I was just turning by Country Club College when the phone rang. It was T. He thought he might need help putting the trailer on the bumper hitch now that it was full. I made the detour to his house to help.
But when I got there, he had a jack under the trailer tongue and was preparing to hoist it.
"Country boy shit," he grinned. He backed his $100,000 pick up truck that "can pull down a house," got out and jacked the trailer tongue up just high enough to drop onto the ball hitch. I didn't have to do anything.
Except say goodbye.
"Ain't your house anymore," I said.
"Nope."
"You have to feel some relief that all this is over with."
He nodded.
"Alright. I got to run."
"Yea. I'll be back at the end of July."
We shook hands.
"I'll call you later after dinner, amigo."
We left it like that, like we would parting after a night out, talk to you later, etc. But driving away, I knew I was down yet another friend. I've run out of people to call when I need something. Physical or mental. I could feel the void.
At the grocers, I got the things I needed. Chicken legs, garlic, ginger, cilantro, basil, scallions, jalapenos, avocado, bean sprouts, mushrooms, hoisin sauce, and. . . shit, piss, fuck. . . they had duck sauce and oyster sauce but no fish sauce. Whatever. I've never used it in pho before but read it was highly recommended. Well, not tonight.
A bottle of Vouvray.
When I got back to my mother's, I had to get started right away. I chopped garlic and ginger to saute. I had the burner on to heat the pan before I put in the olive oil as I've read I should do. As I cut the ginger, I smelled something odd. I turned to the stove and saw that I had turned on the wrong burner, the one that I had laid the top of the Instapot on. The plastic was burning. HOLY SHIT! I picked it up and saw the melted plastic. Had I ruined it? Would it still work? This was me all over. A brand new, never used Instapot and I fucked it up. I let the plastic cool, then I put the lid on the pot. It went on. The damage was only cosmetic.
Phew! as they used to say in the days of double-basin sinks.
I sauteed the ginger and garlic, and. . . shit, piss, wtf? I'd forgotten to buy chicken stock. I ran to the pantry to see if there was any in the house. Oh, yea. . . there were several boxes of organic stock that T had given me when he was cleaning out the kitchen. Real stock, not the Swanson shit that is fake. Nope . Good old T. The pho was on him tonight.
Stock and wine, salt and pepper, chicken legs, red pepper, the sauteed things and the sliced scallions. I set it for half an hour. Poured a glass of wine and went to sit with my mother to tell her about my day, to hear about hers.
"You're going to miss your friend, aren't you."
"Yup."
Now when I needed something, I was on my own. Me and mom.
I went back inside to check on things. I cut the avocado, opened the bag of bean sprouts, tore the cilantro and basil leaves, chopped the green parts of the scallions. I took the chicken from the pot and put in the mushrooms. When the drumsticks had cooled enough, I pulled off the meat and chopped it into small pieces and put it back into the pot. I boiled the noodles.
"Hey. . . dinner's ready."
I'm getting better at making pho all the time. This was the best I'd made yet.
"You're a good cook," my mother offered.
"Sometimes."
I was that night.
After dinner, my mother said she needed something from the pharmacy. Benadryl. My mother takes more drugs than anybody I've ever known. She gets 40 mg of oxy a day and still takes over the counter pain pills and things to make her sleep. I think it is clear that drugs will not kill you. I've always been afraid of them, but I'm beginning to believe that I have been wrong.
It was eight o'clock and beautiful out. I am nearly never out of the house at eight o'clock anymore, and it felt good. I felt like running, just revving the engine and never looking back. I remembered for a minute what living felt like again.
"Run, baby. . . just run."
There are still a thousand places I want to go. I don't let myself think about it much, but the desire now was like a flood. Rather, I parked the car and walked across the lot in the golden light. I got the benadryl. Then I stepped next door and got a bottle of scotch.
After a little t.v., both my mother and I were ready for an early bedtime.
I didn't call T.
I slept and had glorious dreams. There were women. There was travel. I took fantastic pictures. The last image I had as I woke late after nine and a half hours was of a woman in that basic carnival mask and a white dress on her hands and knees atop a washer and dryer, a man's torso in the foreground, back to camera, looking at her. A brightly lighted scene. Probably using well placed strobe flashes.
I opened my eyes. Yes! Why have I yet to make that photo?
And that was the start to my day. I'll fix no breakfast this morning. In a little while, I will take my mother to a distant bank to renew some CDs. Then we will go to TooJays, a deli restaurant, for lunch, and I will get what I always get there (Rain Man), a pastrami/corned beef sandwich with coleslaw.
A big outing.
OK, kids, that's the report. I've yet to hear back from the Leiter Foundation. If I don't hear something this week, I will write to them again, tell them that I am going to publish the article one way or another and that their silence on the matter will become a centerpiece of the story.
No I won't. I'll just beg.
I wish there were still big clubs that had stages and big bands like they did in the "Thin Man" movies. I'd love to go sit at a table and order drinks. I'd go every night.
It doesn't matter, though. I couldn't go anyway.
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