Maybe I need to get out more...

 

I am not the best company to be around, even with myself.  I never really know what to talk about.  I mean, I’ve known me all of my life but that’s just the thing… what’s left to say to myself?  I can tell myself jokes but I already know the punch line.

Yes, I still snicker, but that’s just because I think they’re funny.  That’s beside the point.  I find myself boring.  I am completely familiar with my history, I bring nothing new to the table and I know all of the same people that I know.  So what’s left?

If I go out and try something new and exciting, by the time I get back home I already know about it.  I don’t even get the pleasure of telling myself how my day was.

I’m beginning to think that I don’t have a normal division between my conscience and my subconscious.   I’m somehow just a little different from the rest of you.

 

It’s like my Great Grandfather.  He was always a little different.  I remember - out of all the people in America, his was the only paperwork to have a typo.

 

He was given 40 mules and an acre.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13

She didn’t care that the business had failed.  It didn’t bother her that all of the time, effort and money that had gone into it was now lost, investors were angry or that the bills were still coming in.

 

She was happy for the fact that the name was still on the front of the building, in big bold letters, and that they would remain there until the lawyers could sort everything out.
 

 

For that - she was very happy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Mental Reboot Required

Where once was a blank page

The Barn Swallow doesn’t seem all that analytical and the personal hygiene habits of the common barnacle have never been noted in Sailor’s Monthly.  The simple fact of the matter is that all rivers shown on wall maps do not always flow towards the carpet. 

I believe my brain requires a mental re-boot.  Neurological synapses are misfiring; my internal dialog has run amuck and now look what I’ve done to this blank page.

 

 

reboot

 

 

What little light fell from the small lamp was hardly enough to read by, but the shadows it cast lit up my imagination as if it were broad daylight.

 

 

There, that's better.

Let me try another one...

 

 

 

 

My Mother-in-law is not a cook - she's an arsonist.

 

 

 

 

 

OK, I think I'm back on track.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Truck Stop

 

 

 

 

 

What I was really hoping to see lying along the edge of the road was a sandwich but instead all I noticed were bits of tire.  Not too much farther down I thought I saw a raccoon or perhaps a possum, but as I got closer that as well turned out to be just another section of tread from some unfortunate vehicle.

 

            The smart thing would have been to pack myself a lunch before I headed out, but no – that would have made sense and been too easy.  Now, miles later, I’m starved and imagining these various chunks of debris to be side dishes.

 

            I can’t remember how far ahead the next rest stop is.  I remember seeing the sign a ways back but I was fiddling with the radio as I passed the sign and I wasn’t paying enough attention to have it stick in my mind.  Now even the radio stations were far and few between.  Hungry for anything I flipped open the center console and glanced in for some gum or mints but there was nothing, just my back-up pair of sunglasses, a couple pens and a small notebook. 

 

            I looked back up just a little too late.  The 18 wheeler that had been leaving pieces of tire along the way now lay on it’s side across the road.  I had nowhere to go.  I slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel hard to the left.  I was going to slam into the underside of the truck and I didn’t want to do it head on.  My tires screamed as if they knew what was about to happen and the smashing impact sent the passenger windows towards me in slow motion like little glass bullets. 

 

            At the same time my body pulled hard against the seatbelt.  I heard something in my neck snap and felt a sharp pain slice down my back.  I was wondering why I had not felt any of the broken glass and I tried blinking a few times to focus on something long enough to collect my thoughts.  I could still hear my tires screeching but suddenly realized that it couldn’t be my tires, I had already come to an abrupt stop.

 

            Gradually, as my eyes once again focused I understood what it was I was seeing.  It was the large chrome grill of another 18 wheeler coming straight at me.  It was his tires I was hearing and there was no way he was ever going to stop.

 

            I was to be the sandwich.



 





Long about Wednesday

many thought it was all over –

No more sweet aroma –

 

All of the perkiness and spark
had left.

 

The excitement and exuberance  
with which they were gathered

wilted to a pale memory -

 

yet they remain.

 

 

This beauty has not passed me by?

 

 

 

 

 

I believe even now

they remain beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is nothing wrong

 

with dancing to the sad songs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mañana

After 35 years with the company I came home, took off my hat, hung up my coat and set my worn out shoes and sense of urgency over against the wall.  I tossed my responsibilities, title and imagined importance in the cabinet next to the box of trash can liners that hung over the washer and dryer.  I was now officially retired.  I wasn’t Sir, or Mr.; now I was simply Bill. 

 

            I took the two pens from my shirt pocket and started to toss them into the kitchen junk drawer but as I slid the drawer open I noticed the scratch pad.  It was one of those pre-printed pads that read, Things to Do Today.  Under those words were nothing but lines; places to fill in all of the chores and activities that need to be done.

 

            I kept one of the pens in my hand and pulled the pad from the drawer.  As I sunk down into my favorite chair I tried to remember all of the little things around the house that I wanted to change or fix.  I slowly looked around and as I saw something I jotted it down, like the sliding glass door, I’ve always wanted to take that out and put in French doors.  I wrote it down. 

 

            The sink in the wet bar that has always dripped a little, I wrote that down.  Then there’s that small crack in the plaster.  I wrote down – fix cracked plaster.  Over there, against the wall I spotted the sense of urgency that I carried around for all those years.

 

            I set the pad and pen down on the table next to my chair and I closed my eyes.

 

            This was going to take some getting used to.

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

           

The keys are not the right ones

  They showed up much later in the story.  They fit but they don’t turn in the lock, so the box has never been opened while I’ve had it.  I know there is something in it, it’s heavy and when I shake it a little I can feel whatever it is slide back and forth.

 

            The box is actually something that I just sort of picked up and walked away with and to tell the truth, I don’t really know why I did it.  It wasn’t mine; someone had left it behind on a table at a sidewalk café.  I don’t even remember which café but I do remember walking down the street with it - waiting for someone to yell out, but nobody did.

 

            I’d love to know what’s inside but I don’t want to damage or destroy the box just to get it open.  The keys - now that’s the strange part.  They were mailed to me.  The envelope had my name and address on it and the only thing inside were these two keys, so obviously someone saw me take the box and they either knew who I was or they followed me until they discovered where I lived.  But why, so many months later, send me keys that are not the right ones?  Why send them at all except to send the message that they know I took the box.  That almost torments me as much as trying to figure out what’s inside.

 

            If I am nothing but a simple thief then perhaps I’m supposed to be tormented.  But I don’t see myself as a thief.  Ever since I walked away with this box I’ve felt some kind of connection to it or maybe to someone.  I can’t really explain it but there is something to it.  I was supposed to take it.  I was given a note…  I was told to take it, so I did.

 

            If you are reading this… if this is your box or if you are the one who sent the keys, just know that whatever was so important you had to lock it up, well – I’ve not opened it.  Your secrets are still safe.

 

 



Life Out of Focus

 

 

 

Every now and then I’ll remember something,

a thing or event - maybe just an image…

but something will be off – out of place

and that is the part my brain will focus on –

that one aspect that somehow doesn’t seem

to fit.

 

Why hadn’t I noticed that the first time

and why now – all of a sudden is it popping

into my thoughts?  It might be something

someone said yesterday, or last week, I'm

not really sure – it’s just that I’m

mentally catching up and for the moment

it is all very confusing. 

 

I wonder where I go -

What I do -

When I’m not in here...

 

 

when my thoughts just sort of

 

wonder off...

                    ..

                        .

                                                   
only to come back later

                               when I'm not ready.