Impatience & Neon Crosses

In case you are wondering, 17th Avenue South in Nashville—once it has morphed from Music Row—is a one way street. To avoid future looks of absolute loathing and hellfire, either maintain proper direction at all times or simply pull to the side of the road (as I did), depress the hazard lights button, and pretend to fiddle with your stereo while simultaneously reaching for something in the glove compartment until oncoming traffic passes and you can turn around. Just a little helpful (albeit unsolicited) advice from your Uncle Ryan.

There was a day when doing something as careless as going the opposite direction on a one way street would have absolutely mortified me. The sheer humiliation of it all. What would everyone think of the poor dolt who’d made such a blunder? Apparently, I’m older now. And while I certainly prefer not to do stupid things, I accept that on occasion, I will. Fuck, I’m actually pretty good at it. In the past, finding myself heading directly into oncoming traffic would have upset me pretty good. And today, I suppose I was a little embarrassed looking directly into the faces of those people who were simply just not amused by my predicament. However, my reaction was more of the “Hmmph, this ain’t good” variety. Really, what do you do but fix the situation and tuck into the vault the knowledge of this particular road?

Eventually, 17th Avenue South—then 18th Avenue South, then another street, then an alley behind 17th Avenue South—led me to the salon out of which Brian was cutting late today. Me, at a salon—tee-hee! Brian is in from D.C. and a trim was on the books from a couple months ago and much needed. I’m still going longer than I have over the past several years. Yeah, I look a little foolish on some days; a little better on others. Not sure that someone my age should have his hair this shaggy unless he’s in the business. But overall, I still feel more like me.

I had Em in tow. Not my preference—out of courtesy for other patrons—but it worked out better than expected. A delightful lady who washed my hair was smitten with him and talked him up. She has two kids herself and was very kind to my young Prince. Uncle G. rolled in about 40 minutes later looking like shit. I noticed the delightful lady’s knees weaken just a little when he walked in. It happens. G. all but had a neon cross strapped to his back screaming HANGOVER. I’ve been there. But even so, he got no sympathy as he dipped his head backwards into the sink for a good scouring.

That Em was so well-behaved at Brian’s was appreciated. This weekend has been a chore. And not 30 seconds after leaving, the meltdown commenced. When he needs my patience the most is, invariably, when I possess the least. He hasn’t had the best father this weekend to be sure. And that kills me. I’ve been good in spurts—as has he—but that simply isn’t good enough. But at 9:30 he sleeps. I make a hardcore Evan with a splash. I put five CDs on shuffle (Springsteen, Damien Rice, The Pogues, The Waterboys, Richard Thompson). I try not to think about the filthy house or work or ironing clothes for tomorrow or a new clutch for the Honda or the section of fence that has fallen in the backyard or the roof or the elusiveness of spring. I try not to think of anything actually. But I drift back to earlier and wonder how in the fuck could such a big street be one way? Don’t they know people get lost? It’s a good thing I’m older now. I don’t really fret such things anymore.

Oh, and sleep well my Prince. Daddy will be more patient tomorrow.