Even More Random Again

Em went down around 8:30p. I am back after an attempt to wind down on the front porch. A couple tranquilizing drinks and a sublime Cuban cigar— a Cohiba, compliments of Ken. (Any cliché you may have heard re Cuban cigars is absolutely accurate.) My head is still so Goddamn full I want to scream, but the cigar, the drinks, and a very well-written New Yorker profile of Sonny Rollins have chipped away ever so slightly at that pressure at my base. My days tend to run together and as I type this I realize that I literally cannot remember yesterday. That’s not good. I recall caring for the Boy and that he did not nap but I am drawing a collective blank beyond that. Hmmph. On Friday, L. returned from two weeks of business in Panama City. I went out that night. The Jeep’s wounded sound system (a tweeter fractured by Techno, of all things—Paul Oakenfold—on my way home from Daltons and Tokyo take-out) supplied me with a semi-rush of the Hoo Doo Gurus, Candlebox, and something else. I found myself at Dalton’s. Draughts and Woodford. I tried to not pay attention as two waitresses had an exchange. The Basketball game was on every television and I stared at it without seeing it. The elder waitress, a tall blond with a lovely turned up nose was, appropriately, the aggressor, and appeared to come out on top. I’ve seen her there before. She is attractive and out of place it seems to me. I’ve no idea what her place may be. I then hit Jonathan’s. A full house and not one soul behind the bar. My impatience allowed me less than five minutes before I left—drinkless. I climbed in the Jeep, opened the sunroof, and let the Gurus take me across the street to the Bellevue Sam’s. I end up there on occasion and I never know why. The bar is clean but reeks of vomit. I’ve never understood that. It is an uncomfortable place and I never enjoy it. Yet I go. The tall bartender was on X. Dutiful, but grinning like a fucking idiot, doing shots and giggling with the waitresses. She did her job though, and mine is not to judge. I ended up at The Pub. I had not been there since long before Emerson was born and have no idea why the Jeep took me there. The crowd has always been unappealing but the drinks always stellar. I drank too much and that is likely why Saturday is a blur of a blur.

I grilled today. Tuna steaks and Ribeyes. Happy Mother’s Day. The day saw daiquiris and cold, cold Corona and lime. Playing “swords” with Emerson. He will someday fence with the best of them. Sneaky fucker will smack your thumb with the stick/sword if you aren’t careful. Quick to make amends with an “I’m sor-wree, Daddy” before getting you again. He loves the outdoors. I do my best to get him outside and run him.

Uncle G. is in D.C. this weekend. He’s helping Nana get moved in. She got gone last weekend and it does seem different. She’s on faculty at George Washington. Good for her, I say. Vanderbilt never did right by her in my estimation. She has bettered her station and...well, it was just a good move for her. G., Em, and I sent her off with a nice dinner and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

You know, I am likely on the verge of an esophageal blowout. Between the Diet Coke, Whiskey, and Tabasco I should have met an unfortunate fate years ago. Excuse me as I mix another drink.

My standoff with the weather appears to have paid off. A stunning 85 degree day today and an evening mild enough to allow drinks and a cigar. My Japanese Maple (in its third year) is heartbreaking in its beauty. Plush young leaves reaching toward anything and everything like a young boy seeing something new with each blink of his eyes. It is aptly named “Emerson’s tree.”

You know, I think I am done. Let me finish listening to Tom Waits’ Mule Variations, drink my drink, iron, shave, trim my scruff, yawn, debate another drink, stand in the kitchen and try not to snack, pet Potter and Cody, sit on the edge of Em’s bed long enough to reassure myself he is still breathing, walk to his door and go back to check again, and get ready for my week.

I have about three hours before he awakens and calls for me. He’ll end up in my bed, sleeping in my crook. My arm will numb a bit but I won’t mind. I’ll take my comfort in the fact that he is safe in my arms, his breathing monitored by me even as I doze.