I dropped a quarter in the case and said “This looks a lot like home. But it isn’t.”
The guy stopped the song he was playing and said “Child, you are knuckle deep in sin.”
It had been a long time since I’d heard the word, it rattled funny in my ear. I can’t tell you how to know, but some conversations are best not having no matter how curious you are. I walked on and at my back I heard the chords of a couple dozen songs. He wasn’t that good.
The sky was yellow, night time yellow, and I walked around as gates shut down shops for the evening and locks unlocked places. Some raggedy ass kid came out of a diner, he held the door open for me so I went in as though I’d meant to. There’s some old saying, it’s probably an emoji by now, how when god shuts a door he opens a window, I might have that backwards. It’s a hopeful saying, but probably not in the way it’s meant to be. Sometimes it means when some raggedy ass kid holds open a door you should probably go in.
I ordered a cup of coffee and asked to borrow a pen. The waitress brought me coffee and called me hon. She didn’t loan me a pen or give me one or asked why I wanted it. That’d make a shitty saying; sometimes a raggedy ass kid opens a door and a waitress closes down. I sipped burnt coffee and watched people on the street, some going home, some just getting up, some as aimless as me. That’s one thing about aimless, it doesn’t give a fuck about kindred spirits, not even with pity.
This lady came in the diner, she opened the door herself. She was overdressed for the 21st century and most of the twentieth. She wore too much make-up, not like a hooker but like an old woman. She wasn’t either. She sat at the counter ordered a piece of rhubarb pie and a cup of coffee. The waitress called her hon and said she’d put on a fresh pot. The lady asked where the ladies room was, followed the yellow smoking finger of the waitress. She never came back. The waitress gave me a refill of fresh coffee. It tasted like the burnt only with less iron and blood. She called me hon, I don’t think she meant it.
I went to the men’s room, taking a quick peek in the women’s. No way out. When I came out, hands still wet from the weak blow dry machine, the waitress was standing there holding my check. I gave her a handful of wet change, exact wet change, and said thank you hon.
What the fuck does knuckle deep in sin mean? Sometimes it’s blatantly apparent how far away from anything you are. Sometimes when god opens a door everything just falls through, sometimes it’s just me.
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“My mother says I should say Sticks and stone may break my bones but words will never hurt me.”
“Yeah? Mine said Eat Salt and bread and speak the truth.”
“I don’t even know what that means. Your mom is stupid.”
“Yours told you when you think someone insults you, you should tell them to grab a weapon like a stick or a stone. I told the truth I didn’t insult you. I called you a snot nosed brat. Wipe your nose and quit smarting off and I’ll stop calling you that.”
“Yeah but you’re a grown up, the principal!”
“You’re still bubbling snot and mouthing off.”
“My mom says people are jealous of me.”
“Where’s a stick or stone when you need one?”
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I guess kids don’t really say that these days. I can’t imagine that kids aren’t picked on anymore. My favorite playground intervention by my son was he broke up a fight between a bully and some scrawny kid by taking the bully’s attention in a calm strong manner and said “You need more fiber in your diet.” I don’t think the bully understood, but my son was not a scrawny kid and had this calm sturdy confidence. He told me this as I was driving home. I had to stop the car because I was laughing so hard.
My daughter once told a kid “I bet your mom tells you you’re special and the other kids are jealous.” I’m surprised they had so many friends, I think they went over the other kids’ heads often. That’s not me beaming with pride over my now grown ass children, I’m not even sure where they got stuff like that. It didn’t come from and it was the sort of thing they wouldn’t even tell their mom about, at least not then. Their mom seems to be mending fences these days. I hope it stays that way.
I’m out of touch with the playground and praise baby Jesus and baby fat Buddha and baby skinny Buddha I’m way out of touch with whatever teens are doing. According to Freud, who I’m pretty sure doesn’t influence playgrounds or teen hangouts, the psychosexual phases that zero to five year olds go through are repeated during puberty. The one I remember best and that sounds least like Freudian horseshit is Contrariness. Um, I think some folks get stuck there at two years old, grow out of it, get it back at fifteen and never let it go. But if you’re paying attention every toddler/teen you know, including yourself, goes through it.
My daughter is getting married. I don’t know what she’s going to do about the whole name thing, for sort of petty reasons I hope the grandson keeps his last name. Petty is the wrong word. For reasons that I don’t understand … shit, no, let’s try again. He’s the only one, so far, of my folk’s bloodline to pass on the family name; I don’t know why that matters to me. The name isn’t really even ours. Also it’s 2016, my nieces could have children and give them the family name. They could also not have children or be lesbians and ultimately I’m more concerned about their happiness than their names. Oh, wait. No. Only my granddaughter could do that. One niece married and took her husband’s name before she had a kid. The other married twice and the kid has second husbands last name, but she, the niece never had mine; she started off with her dad’s last name.
A few years back I collected family stories and put them together. I did it during wrinomoho so I’d finish the project instead of letting it linger. I wrote it mainly for my grandson because, I think, they were moving out here. They were moving somewhere. My daughter told me a few weeks ago the kid was reading it. I hope it was clean. I mean the thing was from my POV and had some of my adventures in it. If I wrote a thorough memoir of my own 13 to 30 it would be inappropriate for kids. And grown-ups. And me too, probably.
I can’t think of anything super inappropriate offhand, it’s one of the great blessings of fuzzy memory. Even clear memories you can change the narrative (I think you do whether you can or not) and the significance. I think I’ll let this marinate a bit.
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