(But That Only)

We pulled into Augusta after 11:00p Saturday. I was so very tired and hardly a decent travel companion for the Boy or Mom. Sullen, quiet, and childish when we were in standstill traffic for over an hour in Atlanta. All the nicest qualities you like to see in a father and son. And since I was bordering on exhaustion—I think, but have no real proof of it or reason for it—I’ll chalk it up to that. I like to think that those moments are the ones in which I excel. I make light of situations that are beyond my control and like to thwart the Gods by living my own father’s words and not sweating the small shit. On this night, though, I was an ass and there is little I can do about it now except chalk it up as a lesson and try not to be an ass next go ‘round. Hmmph!

I was so exhausted on Saturday night, in fact, that I unloaded the Jeep, put my darling, handsome Boy to bed, took advantage of my mother’s good nature, made a road drink, and went downtown. Classy! I took Sibley Road to Wrightsboro Road to Walton Way to Broad Street. A sucker for the strip club I first went to at seventeen, I circled the block and contemplated a drink at the Discotheque. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t stop. I turned back up Broad and parked off a side street behind Metro. I paid my cover, showed my ID (how flattering), and strode with purpose past the band and to the bar. Sierra Nevada on tap. I have always liked the place, but was not comfortable. At all. In the right mindset, I can be comfortable standing on my head in a hammock. But for reasons beyond me, I was uncomfortable—not self-conscious, but uncomfortable just the same. I stayed for my beer and then walked with purpose up a block to The Soul Bar. I paid a cover, politely squeezed by folks while walking the length of the bar, turned, re-squeezed, and left. I then tried Stillwater where I’d had luck before. Not so on Saturday. ID, no cover, walked in, left. Back to Metro, where I jumped back on a Sierra. I stood awkwardly for awhile against the bar and then found a hightop in the middle of the room that I latched to. Another Sierra Nevada and a Woodford (neat ) then back to my hightop. I enjoyed the band, a young inexperienced group that may one day make pretty good music. That’s my way of suggesting I may have enjoyed them enough to say they have potential. Ah, the snobbery of a man who knows what he likes. Their rendition of the Sanford & Son theme was priceless if only that it was unexpected. It made me smile. And since that was my first smile of the long day, I give the band credit. It got later and I had the rare good sense to call it a night.

It was but a short trip downtown. How could the evening have met my expectations when my expectations were never defined? But the deal is thus; I was looking for something and I didn’t find it on Saturday. I’m not sure what it was. Perhaps it was at the Discotheque, hidden between the breasts of the girl with the vacant stare. Perhaps it was beside one of the foolish people I had to squeeze by in the Soul Bar. Perhaps it was riding shotgun on the note of a delightful jazz song. Perhaps it is hidden still—which is what I suspect. But I was out, so that is something. I was amongst strangers but they were from home. So I will give them that (but that only).

Once home, I let myself inside, drank a glass of water, peed, shed my smoke-heavy clothes, and climbed into the bed I shared with my son. His breathing was slow and heavy. His lips were parted just so. His eyelashes were a long, slow waltz. I placed him in my crook and ran rabbits in my head until I noticed nothing but the weight of him on my arm; his, the warmth of goodness and decency. And as sleep washed slowly over me, it occurred to me what I’d been looking for. And it occurred to me too that I’d found it just over three years ago. And as he sighed deeply in his sleep I sighed in mine. Saturday was done. It was now spring.