One Weekend in June
The air conditioner repairman was tall and lanky. Slightly stooped in the shoulders. He had a friendly, hangdog look to him but didn’t smile once. He had chew tucked away in his jaw in that unselfconscious was so many Southerners have. “First thing is I’ma hafta unfreeze the unit. It’s all froze up in there,” he told me. His voice matter-of-fact and monotone. The guy wasn’t particularly friendly (nor un), but I liked him. By the time he was done, he had “unfroze the unit,” topped off the refrigerant, cleaned out the something-or-other that was lousy with garbage, and sold me a follow-up fall and spring package. I wrote him a bad check for $159.00 and he was on his way to the next call.
At the Highway 100 Kroger, the MasterCard transaction declined. The Aww, Fuck!!! settling over me like a familiar stranger. In these middle years, I am pretty much free of shame or embarrassment—though a hint, I suppose, will always rest in that tight space between my shoulders. (Pause). Remembering that the check to Em’s old daycare had not yet cleared, I fished in my left pocket, found, and swiped the account debit card. Success.
Last night on my way to Daltons for silent draughts and Woodfords, I turned up the stereo so I couldn’t hear the back brakes grinding. (Are the brakes grinding if you cannot hear them?) E. had my shot and draught on the bar before I was fully seated—a wonderful feeling for a barfly.
Mid morning yesterday, I put on Racing Stripes for Em. During the climactic scene in which an improbable zebra overtakes the field in an improbable horse race, Emerson sat astride his large stuffed lion. Wearing a tee shirt, shorts, snow boots, a snorkeling mask, and a camouflage safari hat, the Boy enthusiastically jockeyed himself to simultaneous victory. How I do hope the pictures turn out. It was during this surreal race that I got a telephone call from Seattle, the welcome voice of an old friend. We discussed our September possibilities for a 20th high school reunion. The call was booze to the senses in that I got to hear a familiar voice and an all-coin transaction as he boarded a city bus. Because I think I am funny, I told him, “I can almost smell the homeless. Don’t sit in the seat that has been defecated in.” Because I think I am funny.
Em awoke at 1:00 a.m. with an ear infection. His first in nearly a year. He was inconsolable and refused the orange-flavored Motrin. We made the expensive judgment call of going to Saint Thomas. I feel guilty for looking at it in terms of dollars and cents. But he is on the mend and will never know that I reduced his discomfort to a chess match of finance. It is a minor infection (as ear infections go) and he was calm before we left the house. But I feel shame nonetheless.
Today was the neighborhood park, swordplay, movies, and rough housing. Two doses of antibiotics. Four stories. And a wrestling match with bedtime.
Tonight is Evan Williams and Gran Habanos. My face is heavier than is becoming and unshaven since Thursday. My head runs rabbits and thinks too much. Whatever the air conditioner guy did did not take and it is 80 degrees in my house at 11:00 p.m.
It is shocking what you can’t buy with a bad check these days.
Monday beckons and I start anew.
At the Highway 100 Kroger, the MasterCard transaction declined. The Aww, Fuck!!! settling over me like a familiar stranger. In these middle years, I am pretty much free of shame or embarrassment—though a hint, I suppose, will always rest in that tight space between my shoulders. (Pause). Remembering that the check to Em’s old daycare had not yet cleared, I fished in my left pocket, found, and swiped the account debit card. Success.
Last night on my way to Daltons for silent draughts and Woodfords, I turned up the stereo so I couldn’t hear the back brakes grinding. (Are the brakes grinding if you cannot hear them?) E. had my shot and draught on the bar before I was fully seated—a wonderful feeling for a barfly.
Mid morning yesterday, I put on Racing Stripes for Em. During the climactic scene in which an improbable zebra overtakes the field in an improbable horse race, Emerson sat astride his large stuffed lion. Wearing a tee shirt, shorts, snow boots, a snorkeling mask, and a camouflage safari hat, the Boy enthusiastically jockeyed himself to simultaneous victory. How I do hope the pictures turn out. It was during this surreal race that I got a telephone call from Seattle, the welcome voice of an old friend. We discussed our September possibilities for a 20th high school reunion. The call was booze to the senses in that I got to hear a familiar voice and an all-coin transaction as he boarded a city bus. Because I think I am funny, I told him, “I can almost smell the homeless. Don’t sit in the seat that has been defecated in.” Because I think I am funny.
Em awoke at 1:00 a.m. with an ear infection. His first in nearly a year. He was inconsolable and refused the orange-flavored Motrin. We made the expensive judgment call of going to Saint Thomas. I feel guilty for looking at it in terms of dollars and cents. But he is on the mend and will never know that I reduced his discomfort to a chess match of finance. It is a minor infection (as ear infections go) and he was calm before we left the house. But I feel shame nonetheless.
Today was the neighborhood park, swordplay, movies, and rough housing. Two doses of antibiotics. Four stories. And a wrestling match with bedtime.
Tonight is Evan Williams and Gran Habanos. My face is heavier than is becoming and unshaven since Thursday. My head runs rabbits and thinks too much. Whatever the air conditioner guy did did not take and it is 80 degrees in my house at 11:00 p.m.
It is shocking what you can’t buy with a bad check these days.
Monday beckons and I start anew.
posted by Ryan at 11:30 PM
2 Comments:
Is now a bad time to ask for that $30 you owe me?
Not at all, Don.
I'll write you a check.
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