“I always worry about you injuring yourself with that tool that you say that we don’t have, the chain saw,” she said.
“The one you never see me using?” he asked.
She nodded. “That’s the one.”
Eavesdropping
Have you ever been eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation and want to join in? Are you a joiner? Do you insert yourself in their private conversation?
For me, it depends on the subject and the people’s emotional state. Their drunkenness and my drunkenness can contribute.
I probably join in others’ conversations about twenty-five percent of the time.
Today, although the others’ subject matter and comments fascinated me, I restrained myself.
I just posted about it.
Wishes
He stepped aside to let a woman pushing a shopping cart go by. A young girl in the cart’s child seat said, “Mom, while I ever be big enough that I don’t have to ride in the cart.”
Mom replied, “Yes, you’ll be big enough sooner than you think.”
The man said, “I wish I could get in a cart and ride around.”
The woman laughed. “Yes, I would love to be in a cart and have someone push me around.”
As the adults laughed, the child stared at them. Then the man rounded the corner. Encountering a woman in a wheelchair, he began re-thinking his wish.
The Other Shoe
I’ve been suspicious lately. It’s just the things that’ve been happening. I feel like I’m being set up.
- I have a weekly beer get-together with some friends. I wasn’t planning to go and passed that word along. Then, I changed my mind at the last minute and sent out an email telling the gang that I’d be there after all. Three others showed up who’d originally said they weren’t coming, telling me that they had come because I said I was coming. Well, thank you.
- My wife’s friend told her that she had a wonderful time talking with me at a party. She said that I was charming. I almost spit out my wine when I heard that. My wife said that she noted to her friend, “Well, he was well-lubricated that night.”
- The baristas keep serving me free coffee. I’m suspicious. What do they want? Are they giving everyone free coffee? Are they giving anyone else free coffee? What’s their motive?
- Our Friendsgiving host gave me a huge hug and a grin when I arrived, and told me, “I’m so happy to see you. I’m so glad you came.” I figured that he must’ve been high.
- An actor showed up at Friendsgiving, causing a stir. People later looked him up on IMDB and were all abuzz at his credits. I didn’t know the guy and barely said ten words to him (it was a big crowd in a small place) but when he left, he sought me out and gave me his card, telling me, “I’m trying to write fiction, and several people told me that I need to talk with you. Please give me a call when you have a chance.” “Okay, I will,” I said, eyeing him, taking his card, and wondering, what are you up to? He looked harmless, but he is an actor.
- Got fan email telling me how much they loved one of my novels, how well written and smooth it was. I thought, what kind of con are you trying to pull? I wondered if they had the right author.
All this in less than two weeks. It’s more than I can take. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, if you know what I mean.
Getting Weird
Rounding the corner, pushing himself to walk hard and fast, he almost ran into another person. The other guy seemed to be doing the same thing as him. As both jerked back in reaction, they looked at one another in the face.
Blue eyes rested a in tanned and lean, craggy face under short, sandy-blonde hair.
He almost gasped aloud. He almost said, “Steve McQueen.”
Quickly, the other man turned and strode away. As he gaped at the man’s receding back, he thought, that can’t be Steve McQueen. Steve McQueen died a long time ago, like decades ago, or something, from a heart attack. He remembered it because McQueen and his father had been born in the same age. McQueen’s death, when he was just fifty, scared his father.
He wished he could call his father and talk about it, but his father had died the year before. As he mused on that, wondering if it was McQueen’s doppelganger or maybe a son, he almost ran into another man.
“Excuse me,” the other man said with a smile.
He jerked back in shock. “Johnny Carson?”
The man put a finger to his lips with a furtive grin. “Shh. Mum’s the word.” Then he turned and hurried away into the brightening day.
Unasked
He’d known Taylor for a while and knew he had a son. Now he was meeting him for the first time.
Son was taller than father, but much more slender and quieter. Son was also about half of Dad’s sixty-five years. The years count for a lot.
Observing the son, he wondered and asked him, “Are you like your mother?”
Son replied, “God, I hope not.”
Conversations erupted, and the questions that erupted from that answer couldn’t raised.
Conundrum
There it is, the bolt informing you that, holy shit, it’s almost December. December begins this Saturday.
If you’re like me — and I hope you’re not — you’re agog with amazement that November is almost empty. Hell, 2018 has almost spent its calendar, and here I am, still dragging myself forward.
But, you know, take the positive, I am moving forward. It doesn’t go as fast or smoothly as desired, dreamed, or hoped for, but I keep creeping forward.
What will the end of November mean? Well, in some ways, it means a re-assessment. It means, for me, an agnostic in America, enduring the holidays, which sometimes means enjoying myself, respecting others’ beliefs and traditions, and otherwise, doing what I do, except there’s more food and music.
Likewise, the end of the year means some searching, but I search almost every day, looking for truth, hope, justice, luck, love, something to eat, answers for puzzling questions, etc. So, really, nothing, but because of where I live and who I am, everything.
Yes, it’s a conundrum. It’s a good word, conundrum.
Phlooommm
I don’t know what was up with the gingerbun this morning, a.k.a., the orange feline floof known as Papi, but also called Meep (in appreciation of the meeping sound he uses for a meow).
I’d fed him and let him out of the house. An hour later, I checked on him to see if he wanted in. He wasn’t around the back door. As I headed for the front door, I thought I heard a thump – perhaps the sound of a cat whacking the door with his paw – at the back door, so I reversed course. Yes, there he sat, waiting for the door to open.
So, you know, I did.
Phlooommm, a bright orange streak galloped past me. In wonder, I turned and watched him make a circuit of the living room, dining room, and kitchen, come back to me, and stop, looking up at me with his tail standing tall. I swear he was grinning. As I closed the door, I said, “Aren’t you in high spirits?”
Phlooommm, Papi bolted away, leaping up onto dining room chairs and off, sprinting past Tucker, the house lord, spinning on the hardwood floor, and then racing back to me to slam to a grinning halt in front of me again.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
Yes, he replied, tail up, rubbing against my leg. Then, phlooommm, he flashed away.
Dipping
I love dipping. Not snuff. No. Tried it once, didn’t like it. I like dipping cookies, doughnuts, and toast into tea, hot chocolate, or chocolate milk, and coffee. I also dip buffalo wings into sauces, and chips and crackers into dips. I’ve dipped things in beer, like pretzels, but I’ve not been impressed with the results. That’s life. And of course, I’ve skinny-dipped. I really liked doing that, especially the time I did it in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Sicily.
Some materials are better for dipping into coffee or tea than others. Doughnuts make for damn fine dipping, IMO. Today’s cookie, a gluten-free, vegan, GMO-free, locally baked chocolate ship affair, is a little dry. Not ideal, because that dryness contributes to the dipping drawback. Dipping a cookie into my coffee, I’m aware that some is crumbling into the coffee. This produces a bottom situation called dipping dredge. That’s the soaked stuff that remains when the beverage is almost gone.
I’m not a fan of the dipping dredge. However, I’m not one to leave coffee behind. Thus, all I can do is suck it up.
Literally.
Multi-tasking
I was having drinks with a friend the other night. Frank is fully twenty-three years older than me, putting him in his mid-eighties. A retired professor and writer, he’s good company.
So it wasn’t surprising that we were ribbing each other and laughing when he suddenly sneezed and loudly farted. My reaction was to ask, “Frank, are you all right?”
“You notice that?” he said. “I did four things simultaneously.”
Before I could think more or speak, he said, “I laughed, sneezed, farted, and peed all at the same time. Now that’s multi-tasking.” Standing, he added, “Excuse me. I need to go to the restroom.”
Michael Seidel, writer 