Talking was part of my job.

It's Mother's Day.  I'm going in on the bus, just barely catching it.  The schedule was off.  I left the bus stand just this side of the reservoirs, giving up, thinking I'll have to walk it, then the bus comes round the curve, and I run back to the road, and stick my arm out, and the bus driver sees me, and I run after it, and going fast I catch it.  "I wouldn't have stopped, normally," the driver tells me as I load two bucks in through the tight slot.  Okay, I'm on the bus at least.

The night goes on from there.  It's going to be busy.  Ten top, five top, four top, another five top, what?  Who's going to help me out.   The boss and his wife and son are going to have dinner up at the bar...

But my job involves talking.  And the first people through the door, right at five thirty one, Ken and Julia, are old friends.  Had their wedding reception here, a nice couple.  I have to lose the emotional, how I'm feeling, feeling down, and just start talking to them.  "How's it going," they ask, sensing my down spirits, gingerly.  "Oh...  "  And well, as usual, I got no choice.  To talk.  To talk.  To listen.  And it works.  They're going to China, where she's from, for a wedding in a couple of weeks.  Ken's brother has just landed in Rome, for a quick priest vacation, come to find out, after I ask.  Need another cassock?  You got it.  Driving to Cleveland, or Syracuse, it takes it out of you at our age.  Ken's working with TSA.  I made them a French Martini, and explain to them, folks, no regular menu tonight, just the prix fixe for Mother's Day.  Which looks great, actually.

Sunday night, stress, Mother's Day.  The ten top in the back.  How's all this going to work out?

Then Monday, coming in early to set up for a Bordeaux importer wine tasting.  Moya.  Gaby.  Straight into Monday Night Jazz with the Bitter Dose Combo.  My co-worker, upbraided, spoken to by the boss over an issue involving tip-out, goes into the corner in tears, drinking peppermint tea to calm herself down, right as it gets busy.  You think I don't want to break down and start crying with this shitty poorly compensating job and all the other shit that's going on in my life?  Well, honey, at least you can cry, and she does, with real wet tears.

Tuesday, a private company buys out the upstairs wine bar.  Railroad Safety conventioneers, drinking Cotes Du Rhone, beer, finger food, cheese, charcuterie.  Starts to break up around ten, but then the remaining circle in on the bar.  A guy from NYC orders a double Macallan 12, offers, kindly, to buy me one too, so I pour myself a little tumbler of Beaujolais, just for cheers sake.  He's looking for liver music.  Ultimately I end up bringing out my guitar from the office.
Wednesday, back to jazz night with Barbara.  More stress, another long night.  I'm reminded it's graduation weekend...

And then, suddenly, the week is over.  The week is over and I am alone.  Sleep is off, weird.  Neighbors come in at four AM, waking me up.  And then I look at my cell phone, and then I am awake, even with the thought of relaxation.  I finish the half bottle of Kronenbourg left in the fridge.  Around six AM, I call mom, finally getting through to her after two days or so without phone contact, first because I'd left my iPhone, again, in a cab, distracted, and then for her not answering the phone.

The spider bite wound is still strange, and itching, the therapist, Dr. Heather, has cancelled, a relief, I've missed my beloved aunt's birthday on the day I worked a double and then some, and finally, here on Thursday, the first day off,  CVS for bandages, etc., trip to the library, I fall into a groggy nap, all afternoon, after this getting up early.

Then I don't have any way, and I don't have any groceries, and I can't make the Bumble first date up in Rockville...

I dunno, so much unhappiness...  why?

I wasn't meant for certain things, I suppose, we know that.  I wasn't meant for, as D.H. Lawrence put in a short story, about a railroad guy, if I remember, "a woman of imperious mein," the Upper West Side, the over achiever... even if there really is no other place to be than New York City, and even Kerouac lived there, with a girlfriend, which is where he cobbled together all his early sketches of job life and Neal Cassidy and his years of toiling and toiling in jobs like parking cars and on the railroad and crazy projects like driving cars across the country for the benefit of their owners...  into the long night of prose and the "help" of benzedrine...  the manuscript, a great testament to America, or anywhere, of that which is called On the Road, poor old beautiful shy Jack Kerouac...

I am cooking a steak in this strange hour, over cooking it, and across the street is a beautiful open field, but that there's no one to share it with, except the moon, almost full tonight...

Did Kerouac wonder, this now must be my time...  This is the time, and by means I find...

And he let loose with the words of his voice.  Great running back that he was.  Glue of a community...

There's no choice but to get into the wine, to have enough, to let loose, after the long sleep after the long toil of recompensing job detail...

I just... yeah...  I never knew it would take so much lonely time, not just alone time, not just peace and quiet, but the real non engagement of other people...  And I suppose this is what provokes the artist to become a.... I don't know, spiritual type, I guess...  a monk, a pastor, a priest, a whatever...  when no one will talk to you about anything...