Fine Wines

I’m preparing for another long stay in Paris, September through December. I have managed to spend an extended time in France every year or two. I rent the same apartment in the Marais district, go to the same cafes, use the same ATM, buy my bread at the same patisserie, step over the same bums on rue Saint-Antoine, shop at the same bookstores and grocery stores, and totally enjoy the coffee, the food, the art, the culture, the history and architecture.

“And the wine. Right?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“How can you go to Paris and not drink wine?”

I was asked that question the other day. By a baboon. Who is also a lawyer and knows that I don’t drink.

It’s no big secret that, in the past, I’ve had some difficulty managing my intoxicants. I’ve used a broad spectrum of inebriates, narcotics, hallucinogenics and “performance enhancing” substances. I’ve also engaged in behaviors that could be termed risky and borderline. My friend A., who is about to receive a Doctorate in Behavioral Sciences, noted that I have a tendency towards “novelty-seeking behavior”. That sounded sort of middle class and weak and minimizing for some of the stuff I’ve done, but she’s a professional. It was a clinical observation and I don’t think it was meant as an insult.

Alcohol never did much good for me. Or anyone around me. My actions were selfish, stupid and dangerous. I was a limbic system with legs, a pleasure-seeking missile, decadent, a hedonist and a philanderer. I’m fortunate that I’m not spending my golden years in a Turkish prison or a long-term medical facility.

 I’ve crafted a method of travel that fits my interests, my budget, health and social requirements. Some snarky know-it-all usually has a competitive opinion or criticism about my choices and my system for living abroad. I’ve learned to expect it.

“You have to go to the top of Notre Dame. It’s worth the wait.”

“Don’t bother with the Louvre, it’s too crowded.”

“Why learn French? They all speak English.”

“Parisians hate Americans. Why go where you aren’t wanted?”

“It’s very expensive but the Frogs Legs are to die for.”

Please. No. Stop. Leave me alone. I don’t want to pay eight euro to climb the towers of Notre Dame. Am I a hunchback? The Louvre, jammed with people from all over the world, is always an amazing experience. I like speaking a little French, it helps considerably. I eat at inexpensive restaurants and get terrific meals. I don’t want Frogs Legs. Nothing is to die for. The Parisians have always treated me well. I like them a lot.

Years ago, the first time S. and I went to Paris for a long stay, I was telling some people about a good airfare deal I found, in economy class, and a man I know, and used to like, leaned across the table and said with a nasty smirk, “I always fly first class.” I almost smacked him.

Since then he’s had a heart attack, been investigated by the IRS, watched his business crumble and has moved into a much smaller house in a midrange neighborhood. I’m slightly sorry about his troubles, but when I think about that shitty “first class” crack, I’m glad that I have the restraint not to call him up in the middle of the night and ask how many free cocktails he downed on his most recent first class trip and then laugh insanely and hang up. I don’t drink and that also keeps me from making phone threats.

I try not to consume or acquire. Or drink. I save enough money to travel by living prudently and controlling myself. When I drank I didn’t travel. That is the simple aphorism that currently informs my life.

And we keep returning to Paris. I’m kind of surprised about how comfortable I am there. I’ve been to other places, beautiful places, but the first time I set foot in Paris I felt myself shift into a brand new sensory space. I was immediately comfortable. I spent six weeks alone the city in 2010 before S. joined me. I don’t speak very good French, I didn’t know anyone, and I felt isolated. Each day, after drinking lots of coffee and walking around the city, watching the river, checking out museums, I ended the day solo, solitary, by myself. I knew that if I died in my apartment, four floors up a narrow stairway in a 16^th century building, I wouldn’t be found for weeks, if at all, and I’d be pretty repulsive. I worried about death and even considered drinking a little wine, a glass or two, to relax, to quiet the nattering voice of doom. I was tempted, but I know for sure that alcohol, for me, has never worked the way it’s supposed to.

There is more art, literature, politics, philosophy, architecture, music, food and history crammed into Paris than in any other place on earth. I was never, not for five minutes, bored. In 2010, after the first week and a few anxious nights of browsing wine lists, taking my pulse and looking up emergency numbers for English-speaking doctors and dentists, I overcame my sense of isolation, embraced my anonymity and seclusion, and had the greatest time of my life.

And how can I do this without drinking?

Jesus Christ. It’s not that there isn’t ample opportunity. I am surrounded by great, reasonably priced bars and cafes that serve fine wines in the most civilized and attractive environments. I stroll by a guy sitting alone under an awning at an outdoor table, smoking, reading a paper or magazine, writing in a journal, watching the passing crowd, sipping from his glass, and I know how simple it would be to order up a bottle of burgundy. I’d feel the warmth in my stomach and my facial muscles would relax. I’d have wonderful ideas and every word I jotted in my notebook would be exhilarating. Literature. Genius. I see that the bottle is almost empty and it’s only 8 P.M. Early. Too early to go home to my small Paris apartment. Une autre bouteille.

A short while later my mouth is hanging opened, my eyes are swollen, I’m smoking a harsh cigarette, coughing, I have heartburn, acid reflux, a chipped a tooth, and I’ve spilled a glass of wine across the table and it slowly drips onto my shoes; I look up, squinting at the other customers. They nervously avert their glances, whispering, and when I focus my blurred vision on the stained pages of my notebook I see that I’ve been writing strings of illiterate obscenities in English and French, bilingual filth, repeatedly, punctuated with several childish sketches of over-inflated female torsos. I have even included exaggerated anatomical details from memory.

Ten P.M. Still pretty early. I’ve forgotten where I am. Paris? Am I alone? What happened to the waiter? Does he sell drugs? Probably. There are not as many people in the café and there is a buffer zone of empty tables between the nearest customers and me. No one looks in my direction. Ha. Bon. Bon temps. Bon soir. Bon vin. Plus de vin.

I don’t drink.

I can tell the baboon who wonders “How can you go to Paris without drinking” that I am allergic to liquor, I have an impaired pancreas, it’s a way to save money and to stay clear headed. I don’t go into great detail about why I avoid alcohol. The poor ape wouldn’t understand. The fact that he asked the question is an indication of his inability to comprehend that a person can travel, enjoy and enrich their lives without the addition of wine.

I just don’t want to explain, again, how glad I am to be alive living indoors. In Paris.

A Crappy Summer Job

I was watching the kid who works at the coffee shop while she was on her break. She sat down at a table outside and lit a cigarette and appeared perfectly at ease, unfazed, calmly enjoying her smoke. When she was done she would go back inside and take up her post at the counter. I watched, fascinated. When I was her age and worked my menial jobs, I could never achieve that level of detachement and relaxation.

 For most of my life I hated my occupations, my co-workers, my supervisors, bosses, offices, my desk, file cabinet, telephone, rolodex, the view, my clothing, uniforms, shoes, haircuts, duties and the parking lot where I parked my hated car.

The jobs were varied. In my early work experiences I dug holes, painted buildings, delivered furniture. I bagged and carried groceries, cleaned floors, drove trucks, and washed windows. I was a gardener, lifeguard, janitor, and sandwich-maker. I wore blue shirts in the warehouse, tan shirts on the truck and white shirts at the grocery store and all of them had pinpricks over the left pocket where I stuck my name tag every goddamned day.

I needed money so I took almost any position. I had no skills. Some of the work was hard, but it didn’t matter. Every day was difficult.

When I turned 18 I began drinking regularly and I woke up most mornings with a hangover. Thirsty, swollen, sticky, sore, a headache and usually a minor injury of some sort dictated how comfortable I was going to be that day on the job.

My clearest memories of a crappy summer job are associated with the time I was employed as a gardener’s assistant with August G. His unpronounceable  name started with a “G” and the rest consisted of combinations of consonants in the wrong places in relationship to vowels. Mr. G was a German immigrant and he was probably somewhere between 70 and 90 years of age.

This was decades ago, while I was killing time between college flunk-outs. August G advertised in the local paper for a helper. I was, again, out of work, so I applied. He interviewed me in the clean kitchen of his home, which was in a neat, upscale part of Marvista County. His wife was stout and friendly in a plain housedress, he was serious and wore brown khaki pants and a plaid shirt buttoned up to his throat. He took my name, asked a few questions (“Do you have a car?” “Can you be here at 7 a.m.?” “Are you strong?” Yes, yes, yes.)

His thick German accent was unusual for that part of Northern California. Most of the population were Italian-American and had a first generation grandmother, a Nonna, living in a converted basement room with bath. I was familiar with the Mediterranean intonations when applied to English; the lilt, the unnecessary vowels that ended many words and the romantic construction of the sentences.

Mr. G’s accent was harsh, clipped and cold . He sounded like the bad guys in a lot of the war movies I’d seen at the Saturday matinee.

He paid me a fair wage, not extravagant, but enough for gas, food, rent and beer, and I arrived at 7 a.m. five days a week. I’d park my car in front of his cottage and he’d drive us, in his pristine, perfect truck, into San Francisco to work in the lush gardens of the wealthy residents of Upper Broadway, Sea Cliff and Presidio Terrace. These were beautiful homes of marble and tile, fountains and fish ponds, swimming pools and palm trees. It was usually foggy as I pushed the lawnmower, raked leaves, pulled weeds and carried bags of trimmings to Mr. G’s, ancient, spotless pickup.

I was always hung over. Eighteen or nineteen years old and I wasted most evenings with erstwhile friends, listening to music, sitting in a beat up car and drinking beer, smoking. Most of the time someone would have a bottle of vodka to pass around, sometimes some pot. I hated the idea of getting up every morning, but I hated the idea of staying clear headed even more. If my friends weren’t available I would go to one of the nearby bars and drink with men and women who were ten, twenty years older than I was.

I’d get home at midnight, sometimes later, knowing perfectly well how I was going to feel in the morning. I’d had plenty of practice. I kicked off my clothes, flopped on the bed, dizzy, and I’d spin into a few hours of restless, guilty sleep.

The alarm was set but I was always awake before it rang, tangled in my sheet, nauseous. I was a little late and had to hurry to get to Mr. G’s place so I didn’t have much time for remorse. Dressed, sometimes shaved, I’d drive several miles in the early morning traffic, park my car behind the truck. I felt crappy when I saw how well the old man kept his vehicle; washed, tuned, detailed. My fourth-hand used car was full of books, magazines, empty beer cans and the ashtray was overflowing. The radio didn’t work and two windows were jammed closed. The tires were bald.

I’d knock on the heavy front door; August answered, ready to go. I was barely on time, and his brisk demeanor made me feel that I was letting him down. Did he know how crappy I felt? Did I look like I’d been up most of the night, muttering and laughing sourly in a dark car with a few friends or sitting in a smoky bar next to a sad woman who wore too much makeup?

“Good morning.” He didn’t remember my name. I’m sure of it. Whenever he needed me to do something he would just say, “Take those bags of leaves out to the truck”, or , “No, no, not like that. I showed you. This is stupid; it’s not how I showed you. Did you forget?” He was a prick.

“Good morning.” My reply to him was the first, sometimes the only words that I would speak all day, aside from “Good bye,” at five o’clock.

Lunch?

August would eat with the family of whomever we were working for. I found that interesting and odd. He would say, “OK, now we have lunch. I’ll be in the house. I eat mit the people who live here.”

I sat alone in the truck and ate whatever I’d brought from home, bread and cheese, salami, a piece of fruit. Sometimes I had a book or a comic and I’d read a chapter and then stare through the crystal clear windshield, looking at the homes. Money. Lots of it. I began wondering what was going on inside. Who the hell has their gardener in for lunch? What was it like to live in one of those clean, polished, light homes? I never saw any of the residents. Were they Germans, too? In my toxic reverie, I began to suspect that August had been a Nazi, a war criminal on the run or a political refugee who was now being protected and his crimes concealed by the United States Government. He was responsible for many deaths, was an officer in the SS, had killed thousands in cold blood. His clients were all part of a Nazi cult and plotted their next blitzkrieg during opulent lunches while I raked leaves just outside. Mr. G was the leader, codename: The Gardener, and he controlled them with an iron fist. The others were terrified of disappointing him.

After I finished my sandwich I’d get out of the truck, wander around the house until I found a hose and drink out of it for a long time. I was still hung over, dehydrated and very thirsty, and I gulped cold hosewater until I became soggy and bilious. When Mr. G finished his lunch he’d tell me to load up the tools and we’d go to our next job. We rode in silence until we pulled up in front of another palace, overlooking the San Francisco Bay with terrific views of the Pacific Ocean, the Headlands, and the Golden Gate Bridge. The residents of the houses had access to those views all day, every day. I was resentful, jealous, and miserable. The combination of discontent and bile was exhausting and my energy plummeted by the afternoon. Greasy and slow, I tried to avoid August as much as possible. He’d be doctoring some shrubs or cultivating a flower bed and I’d make it a point to get out of his line of site, light a smoke and sit in the shade. There were times when he’d come looking for me and when he spotted me lying back on a damp lawn he’d grunt and say, “Must do our work.”

I heaved myself up and went back to raking, trimming, loading, clipping. It was a long summer. I can’t remember if I had a girlfriend at the time, who I was hanging out with and what else I did when I wasn’t working. Reading, certainly; some writing. That summer is a cluttered, out-of-focus collage.

When the day was done we’d drive back across the Bridge and I could turn around and look at the homes perched on the cliffs overlooking the bay and recall the gardens, the ornate doorways, the tall windows and heavy curtains that were always drawn.

At home I’d take a nap, dress, eat, and count my pay. I calculated how much beer or wine I could afford, and if I had any money left over I could get some weed, maybe some cocaine, blunder through the night and wake up the next morning feeling sick and mad, ready to repeat another long, hard day.

That job and the way I felt every single morning helped me decide to go back to college. I still drank too much, but I managed to save some money and register for a few classes. I got away from The Gardener as soon as I could, took another job in a furniture warehouse, delivering and moving heavy hide-a-beds three days a week. It was indoors, there were no rich people to judge and disturb me and, along with my co-workers, I could drink beer on the job. I felt it was a step up from working with Mr. G.

The girl at the coffee shop was polishing off some kind of smoothie that looked healthy and refreshing. I’ve spoken with her and she’s funny, pleasant, and makes a good cup of coffee. In 40 years, how will she feel about her work? When she looks back on her life, will she regret this summer? Working with Mr. August G was pretty dismal, but, I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to experience that level of self loathing and resentment. After six more years I graduated from college and I never had another job that was quite so depressing. Maybe everyone needs to experience soul-crushing humiliation at certain times in their lives in order to change. I would have liked to work in a coffee shop. That tasty smoothie, cold, sweet, full of fruit and other healthy nutrients, would probably take the edge off of a hangover.

Today's Health Update

 

Discouraged. Disillusioned. Pissed off. Embarrassed. About what? Weight. My goddamn weight. Humiliating. I started the summer weighing, never mind, I’m not so honest that I’m willing to completely expose my flawed humanity, but 24 pounds above my ideal. So I’ve cut out sugar, flour, snacks, overeating, moderate eating, heavy foods, white foods, salt and even bananas, because I read that they have a different, more concentrated sugar and could affect my fasting glucose levels. Banana Bullshit. I’ve been given a lot of advice from skinny people. I listen to skinny people: I need more magnesium, potassium, chromium, and zinc. I must down five gallons of water a day. I have to exercise vigorously for hours and hours, sleep twice as much, meditate, take spirulina and milk thistle and cinnamon and fennel and drink my own urine.

I’m trying to keep from developing the family disease of diabetes. I exercise daily, sometimes too hard, and that has helped with the other ancestral disorders of high blood pressure and cholesterol. I chart my food intake in a journal. Meds help, too, but I don’t leave everything up to the pharmacies. I take responsibility for my health, by God. I don’t smoke or drink. Yummy; good for me.  So, a couple weeks ago I saw that, due to self-control, diet, denial, I’d lost four pounds. Doesn’t sound like much, but I’ll take it, considering all the effort, work, study, the obsession with cooking, eating, shopping, storing and disposing of groceries. I was down four pounds and felt effective, healthy, and happy. See, all I have to do is cut out certain foods, exercise every day, and I can lose weight like everyone else. Nice. All is well with the world and I’ll live to a healthy old age. Two days later, with absolutely no alteration in diet, I was back to my original weight, 24 lobs above my goal. What. The. Fuck? Suicidal thoughts invade. Lashing out at loved ones. Driving faster, not shaving, grinding teeth, sighing deeply. Unfair.

Ever the optimist, I have doubled down this past week. I look at an apple and wonder, “Should I eat this apple? I’m hungry as hell, my stomach hurts, it’s growling and contracting and I’m weak. Should I bite into this less-than-satisfying fruit, my entire breakfast, chew it slowly, eat the core, the seeds, everything but the stem, and feel mollified for fifteen minutes? I wonder what the sugar levels are and how that will affect my glucose, pancreas, insulin, and whatever-the-crap else an apple will interact with to disappoint me. Fuck this goddamn apple.”

Nice, huh? Angry at healthy food. Angry at all food. Angry at myself, my history, my genes, my family, my ethnicity, my body, my metabolism and angry at each individual organ. A wonderful way to start the morning.

My friend Chris eats a box, a whole box, of cookies every night, after his three normal meat and potatoes meals. He is five feet eleven and weighs one hundred forty five pounds. I eat less than S. She is totally fit, has the occasional treat with no serious repercussions. If she feels that her clothing is getting a little snug, she goes to the gym, stops buying bread and in a week she’s returned to an acceptable norm. My friend D’s wife, another slim, fit, healthy woman, says that when she “feels a little heavy” she just stops eating Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. I want to slash my wrists. Whenever I eat Ice cream, and, yes, I have, occasionally, that is I used to, I feel like I’m consuming a tasty creamy poison that will destroy my digestive tract and could very well kill me in an hour or so. It’s like buying whack LSD from a dealer who looks shady and dirty and is an obvious hustler and cheat and I then ingest the Acid in a hostile atmosphere full of threats, strangers, danger, bad music and unrestricted power tools. A guaranteed bad trip. So many flavors to choose from.

Several years ago, a doctor told me that I’m “built for famine.” Pardon? I didn’t quite get that? Famine?

“Well, your family were most likely peasants, in the old days, in the old country. Your family is from Southern Italy, right? They were probably hard working people without a lot of resources. That’s a poor part of the country and your progenitors might have developed a way of maximizing calories. You know, what they ate was metabolized differently because their bodies would have to keep them alive during times of deprivation and crop failure. Then they immigrated to America where they found that their lives were easier. More and better food, too. But their metabolism stayed the same and they continued to process nutrients in the old way, as though they were preparing for times of famine. You’re, what, a writer? Well, you’ll be fine if we ever experience starvation. You’ll survive better than the rest of the population. That’s good news. Until then, you’ll have a hard time keeping the weight off. See you in six months. Keep up the good work.”

Peasants. I knew I had reason to resent my roots. So now I’m anticipating the apocalypse. Screw the zombies, Christian soldiers, nuclear meltdowns, tsunamis, plagues, drought, war and locusts. Bring it on. I process nutrients like a peasant you sons of bitches. I will survive. I will dance in the graveyard. I will force my overweight, diabetic, high blood pressured, joint damaged, cholesterol clogged body to cha-cha on the shallow graves of the vigorous, the healthy and the skinny who went before me. I’ll wander alone but alive through the cemeteries crammed with the decomposing bodies of all those with good self esteem and nice clothes who cut back on their frozen desserts and lost five pounds in three days.

Now it’s noon. Time for lunch and I’m damned hungry. Ah, the choices. The life of a peasant.  A small serving of lentils or a large plate of lettuce. I may risk some broccoli.

 

Mourning the Loss of a Friend

Sorting through irritants, personal embarrassments, judgments and self-centered ravings for topics. What things are currently filling my head, driving me, ramping up my pulse rate, keeping me awake at three a.m., worried, breathless, agitated, contemplating life in prison? Weight loss, Music, the Olympics, the Mars Landing, Back Pain, Heart Disease, Death, Zombies. What must I unload from my brain; what is blocking free flowing creativity and causing inappropriate conduct?

I just found out that my friend Arnie died. He was big, loud, funny, arrogant and demanding and he lived to be 80 years old. Considering his lifestyle, he had an impressive run. I’m thinking about resurrecting my semi-fictional study, “Advice from Arnie”. It’s an interesting project; all the bad advice, boisterous diatribes, obscene comments and guilty apologies. It would be sensitive, funny, enlightening and a wonderful tribute to an impressive friend who has passed on.

Instead I went to Wal-Mart. I needed some earphones for my Ipod; the right side has shorted out and I like to listen to music when I walk on the mesa behind my house. The volume has to be loud enough to drown out the ringing in my ears.

The small town in Northern New Mexico where I live is limited in its commercial offerings. Art galleries, organic food, massage and specialty stores, but very little in the way of mundane day-to-day real-world products. Of course we have a Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart was perfectly fine. Totally OK. I know I’m supposed to abhor and despise it, the management, the politics, the prices, products and people. I don’t. I don’t care much about Wal-Mart. I have enough things in my life that instill remorse and regret and blame.

I was on my way up the mountain last week to hike for an hour. Clear my head. Quiet the voices. Turn down the volume. Smell some pine, feel the air, look at a tree, throw rocks at a squirrel. Forgot to bring a t-shirt. I guess I could have turned around and gone back home, a 40 minute round trip at the best time of day, or I could drop into one of the many used clothing/junk/garbage stores in the area, moving from bin to bin, sorting through dead people’s garments until I fount the right size shirt. Something without ground-in dog-doo or blood stains.

Wall mart. Brand new t-shirt, extra large, 4 dollars. And it had a picture of a space ship on the front.

If I need printer paper, what the hell am I supposed to do? Go to some local artisan paper co-op and have them create a ream from hand-dipped, organic, acid-free, renewable whatever-the-crap-they-make-paper-from? I need printer paper. Wal-Mart. $3.87.

Vaguely guilty, I roam around with my giant cart, self-conscious, suspicious, watching everyone else and avoiding any kind of contact.

Suppose I’m spotted by one of the local arbiters of proper modern behavior and marketing, a busybody of political and cultural conduct, an evaluator a what is right, hip, cool, proper, green and doesn’t exploit disabled foreign orphans and suicidal piece-workers?

But, what the hell would they be doing here? Research? Reconnaissance? Shopping for discount bomb materials? Screw them. All I want is to listen to some music with both ears, bilaterally, without wondering if I’m going deaf or if I’ve had a stroke.

 While I was roving the store I remembered I also needed hand soap. You know, bars, not too aromatic? I ambled back and forth, peering down every aisle, drifting, passing the other customers two or three times, lost, hungry, tired.

Finally I saw a plain young woman with lots of hair and a Wal-Mart name tag.

“Can you tell me where the soap is? The hand soap. Bars.”

She pointed south.

“Um, where would that be?”

“Back there. End of the store. I think that’s were you’re probably gonna find it.”

End of the store. End of Wal-Mart. Hardly visible in the distance. Thataway. She thinks. Unclear. Probably gonna find it. Big store. Long walk.

Slowly scanning every few feet of crowded, colorful, shelves. Cheap hair dye. Laxatives. Lots of laxatives. Probably best not to buy food at Wal-Mart. Ramen noodles. Ten packages for a dollar. Cheap food. I ate Ramen for a week one time. It was very salty. By the end of the week I was hungry,  swollen, and sweaty. Definitely don’t buy food here.

Soap and earphones. Should be simple.

Eventually I found a substantial stock of hand soap. Plenty of different brands, aloe, shea butter (no idea), rose, vanilla, cranberry. Really, cranberry soap. I was hoping to avoid decisions. All I want is white soap, plain, for use on sensitive parts of the human body, without strong perfume, mystery herbs and produce.

I fumbled a block of 12 bars for $3.67 into my cart. Looked around. No one saw me.

In the Home Entertainment sector I walked by a wall of flat screen TVs. Good prices and built to last 6 to 18 months. A bin of DVDs, five dollars each, representing the absolute worst that Hollywood has to offer. Selling well, too. I guess we Wal-Mart shoppers can’t get enough of Adam Sandler, dismemberment, and the History Channel’s love affair with Nazis.

The nine-dollar ear phones, hundreds of them, nicely arranged on hooks according to price and color, were just what I needed. I tugged on the package and it wouldn’t come off the rack. The hook that the package hangs from is locked with some kind of sophisticated Post-911 security puzzle and a shopper has to ask for help from one of the rare members of the Wal-Mart family. Makes sense that people would steal earphones. I would. Small, built to fail, easily concealed.

I found three dour people with Wal-Mart identity cards pinned to their XXX-L t-shirts, chatting, staring, dozing off near the plastic shoes.

“Hi. Could someone help me get some earphones off of the rack?”

“Earphones?” The fattest guy. Jerrold.

“Yeah, I need some earphones and they are locked up.”

“Locked up?”

“Yep. All safe and secure. Can’t shake them loose. Maybe I’m not pulling hard enough.”

“Pulling?”

“Can you get then off the goddamn hook?”

“Just a minute.”

“OK. Thanks. Jerrold.”

He took a call on his cellphone, turned away from me. The other two had vanished into weed-killer and petroleum-based lingerie.

I was hanging out in the middle of the store, waiting, shuffling my feet, reading labels. I looked for Jerrold and saw him leaning on a counter, his head down, texting his autobiography into his phone.

I should have left. Save some grief, pay for the soap and listen to music through one ear. Send away for earphones. Amazon. Another hated company.

Instead I leaned into a kiosk of batteries and tipped them over. The sound of the display case as it crashed to the floor got Jerrold’s attention. He closed his phone and lumbered in my direction, quickly, frowning.

“Man, I’m sorry. I just touched it and the whole thing fell over. Probably not assembled properly.”

“Assembled?”

“Yeah. Hey, can you get me those earphones now? Right over there. The white ones. Nine bucks. On that rack. Long as you’re here.”

I carefully edged towards the electronics section of the store, cautious, so as not to startle him, pointing, looking over my shoulder occasionally, to make sure he was still following me. I felt like a Sherpa. I stumbled into the DVDs, the case wobbled dangerously, and he caught up. At out destination, he flicked the hook with a clever utensil attached to his belt and the earphones popped free.

“Nice tool.”

“Tool?”

“Thanks, Jerrold.”

We parted more or less amicably.

 The lady at checkout was really pleasant. Very nice.

“I’m sorry, I’m out of little bags. Is that OK?”

“Bags?”

“Yes, do you mind?”

I shook myself out of a near-coma.

“Great, fine, no problem. No Bags.”

I left the store with the earphones in one hand, gripping the heavy brick of soap under my arm.

I was grateful that the aged security team at the front of the store didn’t ask to see my receipt. I wasn’t feeling stable. I should take a walk to unwind, listen to some relaxing music, and have a shower afterwards. I had all the necessary supplies and at a reasonable price. I was hungry and confused. I turned and looked back at the store. A hell of a good deal on Ramen, though.

Fun with Language

When Norman Mailer published “The Naked and The Dead” he used the made-up word “fug” to replace the common four letter expletive. He was vilified by some critics and fellow writers, but his novel is a classic and the substitution probably helped him to dodge unnecessary criticism and reach a larger audience. His compromise is still the occasional subject of literary studies on censorship. When I first read the book I, too, was disturbed by the use of the word “fug”, but the writing was so strong that I quickly overlooked it and only intermittently stumbled when it appeared on the page.

 “Swearing makes you sound stupid.”

“When you talk like that, you’ve wasted your education.”

“It sounds like you don’t know any better.”

“Your use of four-letter words is insulting.”

I live in a profane world. Anger and coarse insults have always been shouted in the schoolyard, at work, at the table. Steady vocal eruptions of anger and jealousy, envy and greed were part of the foundation of middle class, blue collar life. For a child, verbal expression was difficult in standard day-to-day activities and conversation. Who could a kid talk with? His teacher, parent, coach? Not in this world. You got hit in the face with a baseball? Walk it off, shake it off, turn it off.

Impure thoughts? Sinful. How does a fifteen year old boy not have impure thoughts every three to eight minutes? I couldn’t control mine, I know that, and with the help of the Catholic Church and a moralizing government, narrow-minded teachers and the babbling of unqualified authority figures, I spent my adolescence trembling with guilt and unable to stem the flow of images and desire. Desire which I acknowledged. A lot.

When contemplating, daily, the lives of those who had more than I had, more than they deserved, a sense of self pity engulfed me. I looked at their stuff and knew that my baseball mitt, shoes, car, were not as good, so neither was I. A lot of emphasis was put on what you owned. At fourteen I couldn’t figure out the socio-economic equation that created my place in the class system so, to alleviate my denigration, I learned to steal and swear and wear dark clothing. A friend shoplifted sweaters from clothing stores, and another took liquor from his parents and their friends. I stole books and felt fine about it. It doesn’t sound like a remarkable rebellion; actually, it’s a wimpy way to lash out, but reading, for me, could be as distracting as alcohol.

And swearing.

Man, could I swear. I loved the fricative sound of four letter words in my mouth and watching the faces of those around me when I let loose with a litany of vulgarity and anatomical curses. It was invigorating. My parents hated it, they shouted threats, but I was potent with words. I tried to keep my mouth shut when I was being scolded by Sister Mary Benigna, but inside, just at the boundary of my teeth, an instant before the lips part and sound becomes detectable, I was clicking my teeth and nattering the most horrifying descriptive dirt about her heritage, her vocation and her body.

If I was cut from a sports team, the coach or captain was drowned in a blazing satanic river of pre-verbal excrement as I looked at the ground or faked attention.

It was when I was with my friends that I found I could shock and disgust with volume and assurance. Even they, those young men from similar backgrounds, angry, repressed, guilty and newly criminal, even they asked me why I swore so much. That was when I knew I had a gift.

I went through college at a time when it had become OK to curse in class, it was part of our academic freedom, as long as it was “germane to the discussion”. I didn’t care about the discussion, my achievements in reading and writing were pretty good, and I could get attention with my ability to offend. My grades didn’t suffer, but my university experience was not as pleasantly social as that of my classmates. Other students engaged me in conversation, but after a short time they would wince and excuse themselves in order to get to the next class.

I played drums in a rock and roll band and there was never any criticism unless my timing was off. Who cares if the drummer has a filthy mouth as long as he can hit hard and fast?

I worked in a warehouse and found that I was competitive with the most threatening and angry employees.

I drank in bars that served cheap potent drinks to hard men and women who had little education and less opportunity. I was a noise that was only intermittently noticed by the sputtering clientele. When I could silence a group of ignorant drunks with an especially revolting stream of sewage, I was proud. 

This month, I’m trying not to swear around innocent bystanders and I’ve had around ninety percent success. There are still those who have been offended, but the experiment has been, for me, dramatic.

Three weeks ago I was at a gathering and, for an instant, all the other conversation dropped away and I heard myself giving an opinion concerning something I cared about, but I was expressing that opinion with prejudice and shocking profanity. I looked around the table and realized that I was dismissed by my tablemates as a big mouth who was not to be taken seriously. I was annoying.

Sadly, there was a time when I considered being annoying an accomplishment. Twenty or thirty years ago I took pleasure in sending others on their way, watching them shake their heads in dismay.

No longer. I really don’t want more friends, I try not to encourage acknowledgment from my family, and I’m not offensively seeking attention any more. That’s a young man’s game. Being loud, cocky, aggressive, those are the traits of someone who is full of doubt and I’ve worked for a long time to be free of doubt. Ignore me and I’ll probably be alright. I don’t actually believe it matters what others think, but I don’t have to show it dramatically. Perhaps this is part of getting older, self esteem and contentment. A breakthrough, or a diminishing of the senses?

When I write, I use any words I want in a short story or an essay; a character in a novel can cover all the trashy ground I’ve already been over. I’m simply trying to re-train myself to use spoken language a bit more discreetly. I want to be effective in my communications and infrequent conversations.

Alone, I still use extremely bad words. When I hang up the phone, no matter who I’ve been talking too, an insurance company, a friend, the dentist’s office, I follow up “Good-bye” with a wretchedly insulting phrase full of sexual and bodily impossibilities. It’s a habit. From the comfort of my vehicle, I loudly snap out smatterings of vocal muck at other drivers. I don’t believe it is Tourette’s syndrome, though I have been accused of suffering from that sad, debilitating condition. It’s another experiment in word usage, not unlike the research I was doing in my early teens.

It hasn’t been easy getting through the day. I have to really explore  my entire database. What can I use instead of “P...M...ing...C…ing…S...”? How about “Inbred Stool-Swilling Pool of Vomit”? Catchy, no? Each word could stand on it’s own, medically, environmentally, without too deeply offending even the most prudish.

 In the end, I may give up and go back to churning out lewdness and filth for effect. It’s a relief to cut back, though. I have so fugging much less to say.

Today's Aneurysm

I arose late for my Aortic Sonogram. It was scheduled for 8 a.m. and I woke up at 7:30. The woman who scheduled it told me that I had to fast, nothing by mouth (what other method is there?), from midnight, and to please arrive early in order to fill out some forms. It’s part of the “Welcome to Medicare” program. When you become my age you are enrolled in Medicare, an allegedly free-ish system to provide health coverage to older citizens. It’s a way to see who is and who is not close to death. I am at the time in my life where there are many agencies that want me to pass away. They urgently desire for anyone who isn’t earning and buying and paying taxes to die quickly with no complications, no lingering, no expensive surgeries, treatments or hospitalizations. These are referred to as “The Golden Years.”

So, “Welcome to Medicare” (big smile and a handshake). During my last physical Doctor S. noticed my age and said that he was “required” to assist me with the “Welcome to Medicare” forms. There are always forms. He read off the questions and I answered. We got to “Have you ever smoked?” and I said, “Of course”.

“But not now?”

“Nope. Quit 17 years ago.”

“Good for you but you have to have a sonogram of your aorta. It’s required if you’ve ever smoked or if you have a family history of aneurysms.”

Unfortunately, both.

About ten years ago I made a pledge to never use the word “aneurysm” and if someone spoke it in conversation, or even if I overheard a stranger say it, I would rebuke them and immediately leave the vicinity. An aneurysm is a blister, weakening or ballooning of the wall of a blood vessel that, when it eventually bursts and gives way, blood gushes and splatters just everywhere, causing strokes, heart attacks, internal bleeding, a “high risk of death” and all the crap that I’ve been trying not to think of but do anyway. It’s an ugly word that can only lead to unhealthy obsession and distress.

At the hospital, after registering and being asked more questions while the receptionist filled out a computerized form, I was directed to the Imaging Department where the technician asked me to lie on a padded table and pull up my shirt. She then smeared a viscous, somewhat vulgar lotion on my chest and stomach and prodded my lower torso with a hard plastic wand for about fifteen minutes. At times the sound of my heartbeat filled the darkened room as she broadcast it over a speaker so that she could hear if there were any audible anomalies. To my untrained but anxious and sensitive ears my pulse sounded like thunder; fast, thready, irregular thunder. A hyperactive kid stomping on a long sheet of bubble wrap, but really loud. I expected the tech to say, “Wow, there’s an aneurysm on your aorta the size of a ripe  cherry.”

There was nothing obvious in, on, or around the aorta that indicated that I would soon die and relieve the concerned agencies; I will continue to be a financial burr in their underwear. I wiped the lotion off of my chest with the provided towel and went to the grocery store, my next stop on this aneurysm-free day.

Filling out goddamn forms occupies a large part of my life. Ill die because I failed to fill out a form properly. How happy they will be.  Online forms, surveys, questionnaires, purchases, enrollment in various organizations, the gathering of data for research, opinion, support, customer satisfaction and aneurysm analysis,.

I use a plastic swipe-card at the grocery store that gives me barely perceptible discounts on certain items. A robot-woman’s voice says “Welcome, preferred customer” and it’s a little like a lottery. I swiped my card and noticed that the cherries which I thought were $1.99 a pound registered at 10 dollars for around two pounds.  Apparently my card, the one I’ve been using for ten years, was no longer accepted by the scanner and I was being charged the “non-discounted” price of $4.99 a pound, much more than I expected or would pay.

I like fruit. I’ve heard, and believe, that fresh fruit added to one’s diet is a good way to avoid health problems like high cholesterol and aneurysms. I use the word freely now. It’s too late to quibble.

I brought the high price of cherries to the attention of a clerk and he gave me a package with a new plastic card and a mail-in form. He explained that it would be easier if I logged on from my home computer and filled in a questionnaire, conveniently registering for the discounts and bypassing the U. S. Postal Service. He also swiped his own card and I got the cherries for the discounted price. God help me, I thanked him for his generosity.

The website for the supermarket chain came up on my screen and I completed the form and pressed “continue”. Nope. The scolding red line of text that says I didn’t fill in one of the lines accurately appeared at the top of the page with a lot of exclamation points and I was kicked back to the beginning and all of the info I’d entered was blanked out, so I started over again. The section for my phone number was marked with an asterisk. I retyped everything, paying particular attention to the phone number. Another red asterisk. I was doing something wrong, I guess. I knew the phone number was accurate. I separated the area code and the last seven digits. Red asterisk. Eventually, I tried it with a couple of hyphens separating the groups of numbers and it worked. I pressed “continue” and after a long wait was told that I was now enrolled in their Savings Program and was eligible for all manner of benefits. I declined a further relationship with the grocery store and their dubious largesse. Upon exiting, however, I was directed to log on to my email where I would receive a message from the company that would allow me to “verify” my data. I bailed, booted up my gmail account and saw that there was the expected notification in the inbox. All I had to do was hit a link that would take me to another page where all I had to do was acknowledge with another simple mouse click, that “Yes” I was me.

So now, while they’re in season, I can buy cherries for a relatively fair price instead of the inflated cost of $4.99 a pound. The cherries were a little tart but I ate them anyway. Aneurysm. Jesus Christ, imagine the forms that I’ll have fill out at the hospital if I survive.

Keyed Up for Judgment Day

It all happens so fast. This morning I stepped out of the house, feeling good, happy, sun, sky, blah blah. Approached the car, looking forward to getting to my spot at the coffee shop, doing a little writing and probably a bit of talking.

Keyed. The driver’s side door was keyed. I stood back and looked, gasped, swore. An eight inch streak of metal on the blue paint.

Why? Who the hell would key my car? Breathing harder now, I searched my mind. Who were my enemies? Christ, I didn’t even think I had any. Not now. Not after all these years. They’re all dead, forgiven, I’ve moved to the mountains of northern New Mexico and haven’t participated in any illegal, alcoholic, angry events that would give rise to an adversary. Not that I know of. Did I do something accidentally; did I insult someone, demean or ridicule or undervalue them? It’s very possible. That’s the way I behave sometimes. I know I have a tendency towards arrogance but the pivotal phrase is “I know”. I recognize my tendencies towards arrogance, narcissism, anger, sarcasm and obscenity and I try to keep them reined in, under cover, controlled. Of course, regardless of the above listed traits, I recognize that I’m not perfect. But to piss off someone so much that they would run their key over the door of my car, blemishing the smooth, well-cared for surface? Damn.

I was now in hypervigilant mode, running through the past several days, trying to pinpoint a moment of social infraction. Who? Ron, Sarah, Ken, Deborah? I know I’ve said things to all of them, my friends, which may have been misinterpreted. I’ve always figured that, if you don’t like something I’ve said, that’s not my problem. If you take it personally, misinterpret or misunderstand, disagree or become enraged, that’s your issue. Tough. Grow the hell up.  Did I swear at one of my acquaintances or ignore their needs? Too bad, really, but such a response is truly inappropriate. The violent forcing of metal against metal to cause a blemish. Get a grip.

Fear. It may have happened in my driveway, so they know where I live. Oh, God, weapons. I haven’t had, or needed, a real weapon, anything more aggressive than a pocket knife, in years. A gun. I should give in to the ongoing, highly encouraged impulse to arm myself with a serious handgun. Carry it in the car, or in an ankle holster like my brother, Rich. I’ve always considered Rich a bit paranoid, showing up at family weddings with a 9 mm, wearing his 22 magnum on his hip at my mother’s ninety-fifth birthday party, but now I wonder if he’s just more socially conscious than I am. It’s possible. I’m arrogant, as I’ve admitted, but there are forces at work in the world that may be unfamiliar to me and hostile. I don’t know everything. I’m still capable of surprise. So, perhaps a gun.

I considered driving into town and retracing my steps. The coffee shop and the grocery store. That’s about it, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’d start with the coffee shop because the same people are there every single morning, like me, tapping away on their laptops. I’ll look at each of them, gauging their mental health, their potential for anger and acting out. Mostly writers and baristas who have, thus far, remained pretty anonymous. We rarely talk about anything of importance and the conversations are short, everyone anxious to get back to their novel. There is a therapist who comes in often. Possible. I can’t imagine any of those nice people, the creative and educated, manifesting such a destructive impulse. Keying a car. It’s so primitive, so unevolved.

I will look at each one of them, catch their eyes and if they waver, avert their glance or grimace, show resentment or annoyance, I will know. My instincts are good. I will know which one of those bastards keyed my goddamn car, or at least I’ll have a general idea. I’ll make a list and analyze it when I get home. It may help me to remember a specific event.

I was grinding my teeth. The nerve of anyone. Fools. Assholes. I was seeing cataclysmic confrontations, Lord of the Rings-type battles, dismemberments, torture, fire, shrieks in the night. I was worried that I’d have to move away and, in this economy, it was going to be difficult to relocate. How much is my house worth? Where will I go? What would my wife say when I tell her that we have to sell our home because we are now under attack, at war, with mysterious  forces bent on our destruction. My stomach churned acid, I leaned forward to brace myself on the car before my knees buckled and I collapsed.

My palm touched the scratch and it came off on my hand. Mud. Not a scratch, but a thin line of mud, splashed up by my front tires. It’s been raining, which is great. We really need the rain.