I wake up shaking a bit.  Nervous.  Anxious.  Mom called at 9, but I let it ring through.

Yesterday, in the morning, the Sunday before Labor Day, Wendy texts me, asking if I'd like to go to a little sidewalk cafe in Georgetown.  Maybe I should have just pulled the usual monkish work-to-do in my little cell here, well, but it's good to get out and Wendy is wise and kindly.  So.  Fortunately she's in no great rush, because I need more rest before I'm ready to go and find clothes to wear in public.  I get in the shower, think about what to wear, go back and lie down in bed for a bit.


We get there, and I told my mom I'd call her back, and when I have a chance, Wendy going in to see what they have because they are out of the croissant she ordered, I call mom, and mom is crazy with jealousy.  I never get to see you.  Glad you're having a good time. When will I see you?  Before I die, or after, she shouts.


I'm not feeling so great about myself anyway, and while it always benefits us, particularly in lock-down times, to get out of our hypochondria and visit with people in public situations, I'm feeling overwhelmed and reluctant as far as being able to enjoy anything.  I try to be present.  I get my green tea, Wendy has a latte with art on the foam, some form of pastry.  I am hungry, but I want to get to the farmer's market, to get some meat for the week.  Anything dough will just add to my belly.

We walk around Georgetown in the sun afterward, the sidewalks crowded with normal happy people, students fresh back to town wearing their class finery.  I follow her across M Street and down the hill, crossing busy K Street, down to the river, where lots of people are out enjoying the park in the light breeze in the clear late summer day.  I follow Wendy up sidewalks at things she wants to check out, but am really feeling like an all-round miserable bastard, for any number of reasons.  We get back up from K Street and the park by the river and the river itself, many boaters and kayaks and paddle boarders, walking westward under the girders of the Whitehurst, then up over the canal at the western end of all the Georgetown shops, through the alley, past the Labor Day weekend couples dining at Leopold, then to M, and across M, and into the cosmetics shop, which I stomach for a while, admiring the style of Georgetown pretty girls, then outside, calling my mom again, and she is not a pleasure to deal with, and as Wendy comes out with her bag, she says, "God, she is being so manipulative!"  The call ends, mom hanging up, and when she calls back, embarrassed, I don't pick up.  My parents don't do that, Wendy says.

"Guilt is the lowest of energy in emotions," she explains to me.  Yes, that makes sense.  We cross Wisconsin Avenue, then back to the south side of M Street as we walk eastward, there's a soap shop that smells nice, except it's all personal shopping at the tiny front counter now, no real browsing, so we walk up 31st, passed the old Post Office, I show Wendy my brother's house.  Do you want to come in and see it?  Sure, she says.

Then we walk back, to the car, I hope, and I'm feeling pretty tired, the ragweed, mom, the strange and interesting news I received via a magical new neighbor with a old rusted green Triumph TR-4 motorcar from 1964, who is a real writer, last evening as I was bumming around behind the old G.I. brick building apartment houses.  Wendy talks about an old boyfriend of hers, a liar by habit.  Yeah, I know, I say.  

"You're a grown man.  You have a live of your own.  You do for her what you can..."

"You call her, you got her a new cat, you got her a helper, you spent two months with her...   Tell her, 'Mom, look, I answer your calls every time, I look out for you...'  You do a lot for her."

I'm hungry, I'm tired, and by the time I get back to my apartment, Wendy graciously driving me back out Canal Road and pulling over behind the bus stop, dropping me off, she gives me a few more words of yogic wisdom and how to deal, I get in, after waving good bye to my pretty friend as she drives away, after apologizing for being such a miserable bastard, no you're not, thank you, I get in and turn on the AC and reach for some sliced cold-cut chicken breast and pour out a little tea, and oddly enough, when I get her on the phone mom is doing well, in good spirits.  Go figure.

I'm exhausted.   My body is lead, and though the mind is active, I cannot move for a long while, and finally must even take a nap.   Goddamn ragweed pollen, laying me flat out.  I can barely feed myself dinner, after I wake up, and fortunately a can of black-eyed peas works.


I've moved before.  It's not a lot of fun.  Lost a lot of things, a lot of books.  Art work, shoes, clothing.  Things I had a sentimental attachment to.

And why DC?  It's not like you're going to find any crazy people here, except on the margins...  "Full of high school student council presidents, all trying to do well..." as a Russian friend would like to say.


So, I think of holding my own life together, and then there's Mom on top of that.