Steve sends me a message. Saw your wine chat. Hey, if you're having a tough time, hurting, I got some work for you if you want. Sanding doors, stuff around the house. Odds and ends. Let me know.
Ah, but my back hurts now. I can hardly walk, hardly put my shoes on. With the ragweed I was barely able to get off the couch, and that's how I threw my back out. But I'd like to help, once I'm feeling better. Steve's out of town over the weekend. Monday I don't hear from him, and I have other things to worry about at the moment.
Tuesday, okay, yeah, if you can come by and pick me up, great. Good, I've got some doors for you to sand. "You'll like woodworking." Yes, I think I will.
I haven't done any work in months. I'm not feeling great about anything. I could easily stay on the couch. Away from people.
But he texts me back, gives me an ETA, and I get ready, sitting out front on the bench. Nerves. I don't feel well. A woman from the rental office parks a car across the street. She comes up the stairs, without acknowledging my presence to put a lock box for a prospective new renter by the front door of 4573. I should say hi to her, but I don't.
His Suburu wagon pulls up.
Steve sets me up out on his porch, with a mask, a couple of power sanders, for the frames, a wooden block with some fine sandpaper, for the indented detail of the wood panels. He shows me the drill. Mom calls. Again. Okay, Mom.
So, I get the hang of it. Back and forth, feeling with my barehand. Occasional splinter, as I let my sense of touch guide me where I need to go over the wood more. I keep going. Steve comes out to check on me. Yeah, that's good, man.
I turn the door over and do the other side. And then I'm working on another door. Moving it along, but trying to be careful at the same time. The Zen of the wood grain. Before and after sanding.
We take the doors in his house and up the stairs. Ready to be repainted. He shows me some other things we can do later on. He goes on and errand. Bill, the contractor, who is also complaining about the ragweed allergies, goes about in shorts, without a shirt. There's some smoked chicken and some brisket in the fridge. Help yourself.
Steve's gotta go to the hospital later. Visit a friend. Stage 4 liver and stomach cancer. I walk back to the apartment after he parks. I get in, climb the stairs, put the key in the door. I take off shirt and pants, and socks. I sit back on the couch for a bit, catching my breath. Talk to Mom on the phone. I reheat some meatloaf in the toaster oven, using the last of the fried rice to help mop up the grease. I polish that off, easily. I bring the plate back to the kitchen. I get back to the couch and fall into a long nap with the light on, too tired to read, and then I can't sleep later on, and I don't have any wine. Then the night is full of terror for me. I finally fall asleep, round first light.
The next day. Mom calls, early for me, and I deal with her, the mood swing, the hanging up on me, the call back. "What's new in the world...." I stumble out into the kitchen with her on the phone, and find some tea I brewed the night before, in a plastic quart container, the kind used for food storage back at the restaurant. I put on the bathrobe, and a grey chest hair gets caught deep in my throat. I gag. Mom, .... I"ll call you back, and then I go vomit. And I didn't even drink anything last night. It's high allergy season. The passages are blocked upon rising.
I have a session with the therapist. She's in town, but I was outdoors on a porch all afternoon, and I might work later. Not wanting to take a metro bus downtown. No energy for the bike.
Steve texts about ten minutes after I'm done. I ride my bike over. A lot of it uphill.
I get there. Catch my breath. Drink from my water bottle, after taking my helmet off. It's cooler today. I rummage in my courier bag for my mask.
We look at the side and the front. Pink white gravel-sized rock. The pile, back on the side of the house, by the brief driveway. The stone needs to get around to the front of the house, and to the other side of the front steps, the other side of the porch where I was sanding yesterday.
First, I clear the mulch away. Down on my knees after raking it away from the house. I pick up the mulch now, lifting it into a large heavy-duty dark garbage plastic garbage bag. Don't overfill the bags. Then we unroll the black mat and cut a piece to put down the ground where the pebbles will be spread, to keep the weeds down. Cutting the mat to shape in front of the porch and by the steps. Sanding was satisfying. Pretending to be building a Japanese Buddhist temple. Today, a zen rock garden.
Then I start with the rocks. Shoveling them into a heavy plastic five-gallon bucket, about a quarter bucket each trip. Picking up the bucket. Coming alongside the house, pouring it out. Small buckets. I'll be in continued pain the next day anyway, so don't overdo it, I tell myself. I find it easier to get down on my knees to shovel the rocks into the five gallon bucket, as if I were spooning them in, and Bill brings me a towel for my knees when I ask him if he has any knee-pads. I stand up carefully. I swing by the smooth barked magnolia tree. I pour out the rocks.
One load after another. A third of a bucket, less maybe. Then standing, then lifting, then carrying along the side of the house and around in front of the porch. The sun lowers over the row houses, then it sets, a few last loads, then some clean-up.
Steve comes back from the hospital errands for his friend. Then he has to go again, more errands. Okay. Finally, I'm tired. I have some brisket. Bob has to go to Home Depot. I'm just about to finish my meal, microwaving the scalloped potatoes Bob made, lovely, when Steve comes back. I sit with him, he goes to the fridge and cuts me and him some of pork loin he made. We chat some. He brings out a salad, Boston lettuce, a balsamic vinaigrette. I don't even ask for a drink. He reaches for a little packet of salsa from Taco Bell, and I try one too. The pork loin is a little much for me, and I really don't eat pork much anymore, but I finish what's on my plate.
The moon is up as I cross the street. Steve goes over to a house a few doors over, reminding the millennial kids to pick up his old gas grill. I ride the bike home. My legs are dead. I take off my dusty clothes, my pants, still wet, knees covered with dirt.
Again, no wine in the house, no where nearby still open. I change out of work clothes. I rest, sleeping some on the couch. My back is stiff again as I rise to get into bed.
One more day of it. I'm sore. I don't feel like getting on the bike. I go across the street for a few groceries, carrots and onion and celery for stew. Some stock. One bottle of wine. I'm early. The woman proprietor smiles when she sees me. (I keep thinking she has a few more gray hairs each time I come in, this business new to her.)
I get ready, and get on my bike, and ride, very slowly, along the sidewalks past the university hospital, then up into Glover Park neighborhood. I go up the alley, walk the bike up the last steep ramps.
Bill asks me to do a little task, taking screws out of the ductwork, so he can "blow it out." He gives me a Mikita drill sort of thing to remove the bolts, to open up the panels, and up the ladder to the attic go I. I brought a plastic cup for the bolts.
But he texts me back, gives me an ETA, and I get ready, sitting out front on the bench. Nerves. I don't feel well. A woman from the rental office parks a car across the street. She comes up the stairs, without acknowledging my presence to put a lock box for a prospective new renter by the front door of 4573. I should say hi to her, but I don't.
His Suburu wagon pulls up.
Steve sets me up out on his porch, with a mask, a couple of power sanders, for the frames, a wooden block with some fine sandpaper, for the indented detail of the wood panels. He shows me the drill. Mom calls. Again. Okay, Mom.
So, I get the hang of it. Back and forth, feeling with my barehand. Occasional splinter, as I let my sense of touch guide me where I need to go over the wood more. I keep going. Steve comes out to check on me. Yeah, that's good, man.
I turn the door over and do the other side. And then I'm working on another door. Moving it along, but trying to be careful at the same time. The Zen of the wood grain. Before and after sanding.
We take the doors in his house and up the stairs. Ready to be repainted. He shows me some other things we can do later on. He goes on and errand. Bill, the contractor, who is also complaining about the ragweed allergies, goes about in shorts, without a shirt. There's some smoked chicken and some brisket in the fridge. Help yourself.
Steve's gotta go to the hospital later. Visit a friend. Stage 4 liver and stomach cancer. I walk back to the apartment after he parks. I get in, climb the stairs, put the key in the door. I take off shirt and pants, and socks. I sit back on the couch for a bit, catching my breath. Talk to Mom on the phone. I reheat some meatloaf in the toaster oven, using the last of the fried rice to help mop up the grease. I polish that off, easily. I bring the plate back to the kitchen. I get back to the couch and fall into a long nap with the light on, too tired to read, and then I can't sleep later on, and I don't have any wine. Then the night is full of terror for me. I finally fall asleep, round first light.
The next day. Mom calls, early for me, and I deal with her, the mood swing, the hanging up on me, the call back. "What's new in the world...." I stumble out into the kitchen with her on the phone, and find some tea I brewed the night before, in a plastic quart container, the kind used for food storage back at the restaurant. I put on the bathrobe, and a grey chest hair gets caught deep in my throat. I gag. Mom, .... I"ll call you back, and then I go vomit. And I didn't even drink anything last night. It's high allergy season. The passages are blocked upon rising.
I have a session with the therapist. She's in town, but I was outdoors on a porch all afternoon, and I might work later. Not wanting to take a metro bus downtown. No energy for the bike.
Steve texts about ten minutes after I'm done. I ride my bike over. A lot of it uphill.
I get there. Catch my breath. Drink from my water bottle, after taking my helmet off. It's cooler today. I rummage in my courier bag for my mask.
We look at the side and the front. Pink white gravel-sized rock. The pile, back on the side of the house, by the brief driveway. The stone needs to get around to the front of the house, and to the other side of the front steps, the other side of the porch where I was sanding yesterday.
First, I clear the mulch away. Down on my knees after raking it away from the house. I pick up the mulch now, lifting it into a large heavy-duty dark garbage plastic garbage bag. Don't overfill the bags. Then we unroll the black mat and cut a piece to put down the ground where the pebbles will be spread, to keep the weeds down. Cutting the mat to shape in front of the porch and by the steps. Sanding was satisfying. Pretending to be building a Japanese Buddhist temple. Today, a zen rock garden.
Then I start with the rocks. Shoveling them into a heavy plastic five-gallon bucket, about a quarter bucket each trip. Picking up the bucket. Coming alongside the house, pouring it out. Small buckets. I'll be in continued pain the next day anyway, so don't overdo it, I tell myself. I find it easier to get down on my knees to shovel the rocks into the five gallon bucket, as if I were spooning them in, and Bill brings me a towel for my knees when I ask him if he has any knee-pads. I stand up carefully. I swing by the smooth barked magnolia tree. I pour out the rocks.
One load after another. A third of a bucket, less maybe. Then standing, then lifting, then carrying along the side of the house and around in front of the porch. The sun lowers over the row houses, then it sets, a few last loads, then some clean-up.
Steve comes back from the hospital errands for his friend. Then he has to go again, more errands. Okay. Finally, I'm tired. I have some brisket. Bob has to go to Home Depot. I'm just about to finish my meal, microwaving the scalloped potatoes Bob made, lovely, when Steve comes back. I sit with him, he goes to the fridge and cuts me and him some of pork loin he made. We chat some. He brings out a salad, Boston lettuce, a balsamic vinaigrette. I don't even ask for a drink. He reaches for a little packet of salsa from Taco Bell, and I try one too. The pork loin is a little much for me, and I really don't eat pork much anymore, but I finish what's on my plate.
The moon is up as I cross the street. Steve goes over to a house a few doors over, reminding the millennial kids to pick up his old gas grill. I ride the bike home. My legs are dead. I take off my dusty clothes, my pants, still wet, knees covered with dirt.
Again, no wine in the house, no where nearby still open. I change out of work clothes. I rest, sleeping some on the couch. My back is stiff again as I rise to get into bed.
One more day of it. I'm sore. I don't feel like getting on the bike. I go across the street for a few groceries, carrots and onion and celery for stew. Some stock. One bottle of wine. I'm early. The woman proprietor smiles when she sees me. (I keep thinking she has a few more gray hairs each time I come in, this business new to her.)
I get ready, and get on my bike, and ride, very slowly, along the sidewalks past the university hospital, then up into Glover Park neighborhood. I go up the alley, walk the bike up the last steep ramps.
Bill asks me to do a little task, taking screws out of the ductwork, so he can "blow it out." He gives me a Mikita drill sort of thing to remove the bolts, to open up the panels, and up the ladder to the attic go I. I brought a plastic cup for the bolts.
Then I'm down on my knees vacuuming up dust and grit off the cardboard laid across the floor. Mom calls again. I'm busy. Oh, I know you're a very important man, she says. I turn the shop vac back on again.
Then I'm breaking up extra pieces of drywall and sheet rock, with an exacto knife, and then tossing the squared pieces into garbage bags, again, not too full. I'm getting tired. The last thing I do, more or less, is cut the mat to the left of the porch, where I brought the rocks up to be even with the front steps. Just enough from the pile to cover the other side of the porch, and now it looks good. Just like the rest, I had cleared out the plot, taking out the weeds, leaving it ready for the mat. There were just enough rocks to cover all we wanted.
I have a quick bite to eat. Then I ride the yellow mountain bike back. I pass the place in the alley where my friend was pinned by the car. But there's a teenage kid looking out the back window at me, as I look down the sloping driveway. But, yes, this is where it happened. Just more than a year ago.
I heat up the meatloaf again, with the last of the Chinese fried rice, call it a day. Wake up later, read the ending of The Dharma Bums.
I take Friday off, and Steve is busy. Bill has gone off in his old beefed-up Chevy pickup truck up to New Jersey and then Northern Connecticut.
And Friday night, reheating the chicken-wing stew, unexciting, I made in the night.
Now it is Sunday. The day you are writing is always the most difficult day to do it. The day you can manage to come up with the least, the fewest of words, the emptiness of content.
Within the beast, the animal, there is the inherent need for soothing. Deeply ingrained, upon which the calming effects of wine plays across.
Then I'm breaking up extra pieces of drywall and sheet rock, with an exacto knife, and then tossing the squared pieces into garbage bags, again, not too full. I'm getting tired. The last thing I do, more or less, is cut the mat to the left of the porch, where I brought the rocks up to be even with the front steps. Just enough from the pile to cover the other side of the porch, and now it looks good. Just like the rest, I had cleared out the plot, taking out the weeds, leaving it ready for the mat. There were just enough rocks to cover all we wanted.
I have a quick bite to eat. Then I ride the yellow mountain bike back. I pass the place in the alley where my friend was pinned by the car. But there's a teenage kid looking out the back window at me, as I look down the sloping driveway. But, yes, this is where it happened. Just more than a year ago.
I heat up the meatloaf again, with the last of the Chinese fried rice, call it a day. Wake up later, read the ending of The Dharma Bums.
I take Friday off, and Steve is busy. Bill has gone off in his old beefed-up Chevy pickup truck up to New Jersey and then Northern Connecticut.
And Friday night, reheating the chicken-wing stew, unexciting, I made in the night.
Within the beast, the animal, there is the inherent need for soothing. Deeply ingrained, upon which the calming effects of wine play across.
I wasn't going to do anything over the weekend, except avoid going outside, but my friend who lives nearby follows up on his invite on Saturday, if you're up for a burger out at the Irish Inn at Glen Echo, meet me behind the building around 7 o'clock. I've been lazy and hungover all day, not done shit, but the timing is good, and I have time for a shower. The pleasures of a Guinness, are not lost in this fraught and scary world. It's hard to resist the inner Irishman sometimes. Plus some literary minded company. I haven't picked his brains enough about Iowa, the writing program.
On the way we pass by a white-haired gentleman seating with two women at a white-clothed dinner table by the entrance, the confidence this is his place. He looks up, nods, good evening, some form of welcome. I spend a moment establishing how we know each other, The Dying Gaul wine bar, Bruno, etc., and his memory lights up, and I kid about coming down to play my guitar to play some Irish songs. My buddy's inside already, so I nod to Christy, and I go in and sit down with him. Burger or fish and chips... Guinness, sure. The pints arrive. Cheers. The waitress comes back. Sure, we're ready. Two burgers. I'll have mine the same, medium rare, but with the salad (instead of fries.)
So, the burgers come, open top bun, red onion, healthy tomato, lettuce, we work out he needs fries too, what he asked for, not just the cole slaw, and the busboy food runner, not a wonderfully cordial person, comes back with fries, quick enough. Cool, cheers, everything is just as it should be. By myself I might avoid the roll, but it's a nice soft potato roll and Bob dresses his and cuts it in half, and I follow suit, a little bit of ketchup, then the red onion, then the leaf of lettuce, then the tomato.
Bob was down by the riots, having to run like everybody when the Trumpian guards marched forward to clear LaFayette Park. Great burger, particularly when you haven't been out in a long time, and you allow yourself to include the whole bite, burger bun included. Our pints our empty. He nods. Sure. The young woman, black tee shirt, comes by, she's just the right amount of nice, and Bob says, as he orders his Guinness, I'll have a shot of Jameson too. I think a minute. Yes, I'll have one too, please.
It's quiet. The main action is outside, but I'm happy to be inside, and I can chat with my writer buddy, a successful novelist, and both of us looking for the same, the next thing. How to survive. Food stamps. Will any more federal aid be coming? And we are stuck where we are.
On our way out, Bob suggests, hey, go talk to him about getting a job here...
But that's another whole saga... a whole 'nuther saga, or, rather, just a small part of the saga, looking for work, trying to find myself, trying to find my own work, etc., etc.
Now it is Sunday. The day you are writing is always the most difficult day to do it. The day you can manage to come up with the least, the fewest of words, the emptiness of content.
Within the beast, the animal, there is the inherent need for soothing. Deeply ingrained, upon which the calming effects of wine plays across.
And that perhaps is where the problem starts. If it always helps you, then what? What if you actually like it, if it does indeed bring peace, relief, even joy, enough energy so you can bear cooking dinner alone, not just giving up...
"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." Thomas Mann.
"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." Thomas Mann.
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