Internal Blinds and Whatnot
In the few moments I carve for myself each night, I tend to be so wired with obligation that I am unable to lower my internal blinds. I manage a couple drinks and a cigar, but my mind won’t slow to enough of a trot for me to actually relax.
Tonight I picked up Bukowski—a vile treat of a man—and couldn’t even make it through a half page. I picked up Hemingway’s Stories, leafed quickly, and put the volume back. These are pieces I adore. Pieces I so look forward to revisiting. But Nada, as Papa might say.
I want to write a paper on A Day’s Wait—a stunning, upsetting four-page story of H.’s. I want to do it because I love the story and because I’ve never heard another soul discuss it. But I won’t. I don’t have it in me yet. I’ve pondered it off and on for 20 years. I’ll get to it in time, I suppose.
I have a scheduled visit with my kidney guy tomorrow. Maybe I’ll tell him about A Day’s Wait. He’ll slap the x-ray of my tattered bean up on the board and before he can say “Hmmm, well…” or “Lookin’ good, Ryan,” I’ll hit him with the straight right of the story—“See, the Boy thinks he is dying. But he’s not!” My doc is a prince of a guy and will indulge me for a moment, may even smile faintly, pause, and finish with either “Hmmm, well…” or “Lookin’ good.” Every urologist I’ve had has been a punless prick. This guy is no exception. Except that he is an extremely likable prick. He has always treated me with measured decency and sincerity. He is a surgeon too, so his ego is boundless. I think that is necessary in a good surgeon. He is confident and skilled. Perhaps he will want to hear my take on The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Perhaps not. A $25.00 co pay only gets you so far.
Well, to hell with literature. Maybe I can entertain him with Tales of a Leprotic Jeep or The Little Central Air Unit that Couldn’t. Or how badly I want to return to Sydney and scream “Top O’ The World, Ma” from the Harbour Bridge. Maybe I’ll tell him that John Prine is coming back to the Ryman on October 1 and that I am little kid excited. Maybe I’ll tell him how I missed the recent Mark Knopfler show and he’ll write me a ‘scrip for Demerol to ease the pain. I suppose he’ll want to hear about my nightly battle with the Goddamn dive-bombing June Bugs. Surely, he’ll have time and an ear for that. Maybe even a remedy. He is a doctor. Maybe I’ll tell him how last week Emerson and I saw a doe and her fawn emerge from the neighbor’s yard and then surreally jog across the street and fade into the hot day. Or he might be interested in the birdhouse Em painted or in Em’s struggles at his new daycare—his forever new daycare. Or I could tell him how I dipped my finger in unidentified animal piss this morning thinking that the rear axles were leaking fluid again over the wheels of the Jeep. And how I washed and washed my hands and the smell never left. And how my insane habit of touching my face left my scruff also smelling of said animal piss. Maybe he could fix that. Or I could tell him how M. and I cried at work today because we laughed too hard. How M. pretended that he caught polio from the 3rd floor toilet seat. He’d like that story I bet. Or I could tell him my favorite joke ever is a knock-knock joke about an impatient cow.
You know, on second thought, I’ll just let my guy do his job. He is busy for a reason. Because he is the best. If he asks whether or not I have pain, I’ll Hemingway it up and say, “Oh, you know…once in awhile. Nothing of real consequence,” which is true. I’ll return to work, try to stay late and make up some time. I’ll go home and hug the Boy. I’ll feed him, bathe him, and tell him stories about pirates and giants. I’ll embellish the stories with added swordplay. I’ll watch him sleep for awhile.
Later, I’ll return to the mercy of the June Bugs, cursing their inaccurate accuracy. I’ll mix a drink. Clip and light a cigar. And begin again.
All in a day’s wait.
Tonight I picked up Bukowski—a vile treat of a man—and couldn’t even make it through a half page. I picked up Hemingway’s Stories, leafed quickly, and put the volume back. These are pieces I adore. Pieces I so look forward to revisiting. But Nada, as Papa might say.
I want to write a paper on A Day’s Wait—a stunning, upsetting four-page story of H.’s. I want to do it because I love the story and because I’ve never heard another soul discuss it. But I won’t. I don’t have it in me yet. I’ve pondered it off and on for 20 years. I’ll get to it in time, I suppose.
I have a scheduled visit with my kidney guy tomorrow. Maybe I’ll tell him about A Day’s Wait. He’ll slap the x-ray of my tattered bean up on the board and before he can say “Hmmm, well…” or “Lookin’ good, Ryan,” I’ll hit him with the straight right of the story—“See, the Boy thinks he is dying. But he’s not!” My doc is a prince of a guy and will indulge me for a moment, may even smile faintly, pause, and finish with either “Hmmm, well…” or “Lookin’ good.” Every urologist I’ve had has been a punless prick. This guy is no exception. Except that he is an extremely likable prick. He has always treated me with measured decency and sincerity. He is a surgeon too, so his ego is boundless. I think that is necessary in a good surgeon. He is confident and skilled. Perhaps he will want to hear my take on The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Perhaps not. A $25.00 co pay only gets you so far.
Well, to hell with literature. Maybe I can entertain him with Tales of a Leprotic Jeep or The Little Central Air Unit that Couldn’t. Or how badly I want to return to Sydney and scream “Top O’ The World, Ma” from the Harbour Bridge. Maybe I’ll tell him that John Prine is coming back to the Ryman on October 1 and that I am little kid excited. Maybe I’ll tell him how I missed the recent Mark Knopfler show and he’ll write me a ‘scrip for Demerol to ease the pain. I suppose he’ll want to hear about my nightly battle with the Goddamn dive-bombing June Bugs. Surely, he’ll have time and an ear for that. Maybe even a remedy. He is a doctor. Maybe I’ll tell him how last week Emerson and I saw a doe and her fawn emerge from the neighbor’s yard and then surreally jog across the street and fade into the hot day. Or he might be interested in the birdhouse Em painted or in Em’s struggles at his new daycare—his forever new daycare. Or I could tell him how I dipped my finger in unidentified animal piss this morning thinking that the rear axles were leaking fluid again over the wheels of the Jeep. And how I washed and washed my hands and the smell never left. And how my insane habit of touching my face left my scruff also smelling of said animal piss. Maybe he could fix that. Or I could tell him how M. and I cried at work today because we laughed too hard. How M. pretended that he caught polio from the 3rd floor toilet seat. He’d like that story I bet. Or I could tell him my favorite joke ever is a knock-knock joke about an impatient cow.
You know, on second thought, I’ll just let my guy do his job. He is busy for a reason. Because he is the best. If he asks whether or not I have pain, I’ll Hemingway it up and say, “Oh, you know…once in awhile. Nothing of real consequence,” which is true. I’ll return to work, try to stay late and make up some time. I’ll go home and hug the Boy. I’ll feed him, bathe him, and tell him stories about pirates and giants. I’ll embellish the stories with added swordplay. I’ll watch him sleep for awhile.
Later, I’ll return to the mercy of the June Bugs, cursing their inaccurate accuracy. I’ll mix a drink. Clip and light a cigar. And begin again.
All in a day’s wait.
posted by Ryan at 11:51 PM
7 Comments:
You are really something, aren't you. (I usually reserve that comment for my kids.) You made me laugh this morning, despite my almost certain impending death. Oh my god! Are you dying too?! Perhaps we have even more in common than I thought.
I think that I love Hemingway most during the summer.
Fahrenheit and Celsius can be tricky.
A mind never at rest? We are seperated at birth, Ryan, you realize that now, don't you.
Some nights I'll be lying in bed, my mind racing, racing, thoughts and chores and ideas, dreams both big and small changing places in the spotlight of my mind.
My wife will roll over and say "Quit thinking or get up. You're mind is keeping me awake."
People say I'm ADHD. They say medication will help.
I wouldn't change this for the world.
I hope this doesn't come off as bizarre, but I'd love to meet you some day, to put a face and voice and personality to the name I see so much of myself in.
A racing mind, a racing mind, a racing mind. I've found that writing until I can't see the screen clearly anymore is quite the remedy. Sometimes the only way.
And then there's the junebugs. Sitting outside, cigar in hand (martini, in my case)...whatever works, ya know?
Hamel,
It won't surprise me at all if someday our paths cross. The similarities intrigue me a ton. I am one crass bastard though--I hope you'll be up for an evening of good whiskey (or [insert name of your poison here]) and good conversation.
Jill,
Whatever works indeed! Thanks for stopping by. I hope you'll return--as I will to yours.
I don't know about a cure for the racing mind, but the Sci-Fi channel's late night episodes of the original "Twilight Zone" almost makes me look forward to my weekly bouts with insomnia.
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