Nightfloof

Nightfloof (floofinition) – Nocturnal animals.

In use: “The heat compelled the cats to sleep from just past sunrise to just before sunset, firming their predilection to be nightfloofs to the household’s detriment, as their escapades and earnestness to have others join in their fun kept awakening everyone.”

Ready

Well.

Pat drank coffee. Sheetz, black and sugary. Squinted. Eyes burned. Little sleep. Too much night telly. Too much sunshine. Possibly vodka, too. And beer chasers. A Marlboro was lit, sucked, stared upon with distaste. Vile habit. Had him in his grip.

This little mĂ©lange of acknowledgements about his underlife stirred anger. Anger fed determination. Get ‘er done. He threw down the cigarette. Tramped it. Picked it up and carefully added it to the small baggy in his pocket. To be thrown away later. Litter was terrible. He wouldn’t be part. Smoking might be killing him but litter embarrassed him. ‘Specially butts on the ground. Fuckin’ appalling.

He stared up at the house, shifted himself, and moved. Now he was ready. Pumped himself up. Drank more coffee. Marched the walk. Pavement needed repaired. Up the steps. The rot on them caused a grimace. To the front door. It stuck. Required a shoulder and a grunt to push in.

Mom’s house, without Mom, waiting inside. He had, he was certain, never been to Mom’s house without Mom being there. No, wait. He nodded. Yes, there was the time when she was hospitalized. Yes.

Eyes went to the steps where she’d fallen, flipping over the side, where there was no rail, bouncing off furniture. He’d warned her. Damaged shoulder, black charcoal and gray clouds covering her fair, flabby skin. Pierced lung. Broken ribs. Could have been worse. Gone into Mercy for three days which became ten. Had to come back for items she needed. Dan lived with her then. Her fiancĂ©. But Dan, Mom said, “Can’t do it. He doesn’t know where things are.” The man lived there with her for twelve years and didn’t know where things were? Come on. But Dan beat Mom out of the house, dying while driving, crashing his Prius into a tree on a snowy winter night while the icy road laughed. Fuckin’ roads.

Yeah, only he was left. Shit. To go through Mom’s stuff. Shit. He brushed away tears from his eyes’ corners before they could get a rolling start, finished the final coffee ounce, tossed that cup and looked. Shit. Where was he supposed to start? He was the last of the children. Mom outlived them. Well, till now. Him, the oldest. Cancer took two. Shit. Both non-smokers, just a year apart, pancreas. Just him and grandchildren now. Well, widows and widowers. But they…yeah, no.

He’d called his ex to help. She couldn’t. Sympathized but couldn’t. Busy with their kids, going to Disney. Second wife just laughed. “No. Not bailing you out this time.” Like, when had she bailed him out? Made it sound like he’d been in jail. He’d never been in jail. Third wife was in Vegas with her fourth. Cried a lot on the phone but made no commitment. So here was Pat. Alone. Cleaning out Mom’s life. Shit.

He’d walked, he’d sat, he was thinking. Didn’t know how to do this. Despite everything with Mom, he thought she’d keep on living. Always thought somehow, impossibly, she would outlive him.

He bent his head with a heavy sigh. Yeah, he was wrong. It would take more coffee, more cigarettes, more time.

He was not ready.

Tuesday’s Theme Music

Tuesday’s sun beats in the dawn with a hot flash at 5:37. We rise, another day older, deeper in debt. Well, some. Your condition may vary.

So has begun 6/29/2021, much like other days have begun. Let’s talk about the weather. Discuss world affairs. Lament politics. Recall game delights and heartbreaks. Let’s huddle by Zooms and perch in cubes, hunker in offices, rush to flights, beat the traffic, and drink to that. Let’s pursue the dream like smoke in a valley. Train for the impossible. Gird ourselves for the effort. Drink the Kool-aid and move on.

Sunset should bring its mercy at 8:51 PM. Temperatures today are lower. Some claim we will break triple digits. Others say, no that barrier is safe. Yesterday’s scorcher saw 113 to 118 around here. Then, strange salvation from a wildfire down south, the Lava Fire by Weed in California. Smoke drove in along I-5, cutting the solar influence, giving us an early respite. Flipside, air quality went from good and clear to moderate, start watching out.

I’ve been awakening with the melodic strains of Kansas, “Dust in the Wind”, occupying my brain’s whorls. Wonder each day, are dreams calling it out, conscious thoughts inviting the song to the party, something wired in my brain, or just serendipity? Maybe when I die, I’ll go to this great exchange, the Afterlife Market, where all your life mysteries can be seen and explained. You can know just what happened when that girl ignored you, you didn’t get that promotion, a cousin disappeared one quiet night after a party, or why Mom went mad. The truth is in there. You can learn everything you want at the Afterlife Market.

As with other mornings, “Dust in the Wind” gives way to other tunes. An old favorite has hurried in. I played it once before as my theme music. Think I’ll do it again today. Remember, stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, can the vax when you can. Thanks.

Here’s Molly Hatchet with their 1979 offering, “Flirtin’ with Disaster”.

We’re flirtin’ with disaster, ya’ll know what I mean
And the way we run our lives it makes no sense to me
I don’t know about yourself or what you want to be, yeah
When we gamble with our time we choose our destiny

h/t to Genius.com

Cheers

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