FireVaney's

I waved, few noticed, I left. Out on the street I mumbled to myself, “What a terrific waste of time.” I couldn’t tell you what my “scene” is, but it sure ain’t the “bar scene.” One light beer made me drunk, so I had to wait for it to wear off. So many conversations… I couldn’t follow a single one. So I watched others laugh and flirt. Damn near every time anybody spoke to me, I  shouted back, “WHAT?” They’d have to shout whatever they wanted to share or ask several times, until I’d give up with a smile and a nod. All of that secondhand smoke still clouds my head a day later. Damn near ever wall was full of muted TVs tuned to one sport or another. Birds of a feather self-segregated in the several available corners. Ms. J. Redacted drank straight from a pitcher of beer. Ms. D. Redacted hugged everybody in the cast—except for me. But then I wasn’t easy to reach (story of my life) and she barely knows me. I did, however, hear what Ms. L. Redacted shouted at me on her first try: “WHY ARE...

You could, if you wanted to, live here, where I live, in this community, blissfully ignorant of what goes on anywhere else. One of my high school history teachers compared the Village of Knotydart to a cocoon. That same history teacher wore leather boots, blue jeans, and a jean jacket to class nearly every day of the week. He tossed the word “groovy” around quite a bit. When we studied the Roman Empire, he rolled a TV with a VCR into the classroom and showed us Jesus Christ Superstar. That was his first year, when he did all of that. He’d moved back to Knotydart from Tinseltown. He’d given up on the pipe dream of becoming the next Frances Ford Coppola. (Incidentally, he studied screenwriting with StepDude at Tinseltown College, but that was many moons ago.) After Mister Argh’s first year of teaching at Knotydart High, he started wearing khaki pants and a professor’s elbow-padded wool sport jacket, a button down shirt, and a tie. He traded his boots for brown oxfords. He shaved off his...

Save for the enviable, one should save for the inevitable. Whereas the inevitable will come a-knockin’, the enviable will steer clear. (Hencethus, why we envy them.) And so but anyway, when the inevitable comes a-knockin’, you’ll need a reserve. This is true of the balloon as it is true for the needle. The balloon seeks to be popped. Indeed. It does. And the needle seeks to pop. It does. Indeed. To pop, or to pierce. To pierce whom? To pierce Brosnan . Ha, ha. The needle enjoys it: The Bursting. And the balloon enjoys being burst. It’s not unlike an orgasm. Perhaps it IS an orgasm. Why not? The balloon drifts on the wind. Indeed. It does. It drifts. The needle stays put. It does not have the luxury of buoyancy. Launch it into outer space, and, yes, it’ll have buoyancy, of a sort. But I had a conversation with the needle. It’s rather sharp, that needle is. Ha, ha. I asked it all kinds of questions. (Afterall, how often does one have the opportunity to converse with a needle?) It answe...

Though he’s not up to it, not physically, Pop wants to plant flowers on his front lawn. He’s done it for years. This year, he’d like to plant exactly ONE HUNDRED flowers, though not all at once. Thank God.  I told him the landscapers can do it. The landscapers can do ANYTHING lawn-related. But Pop insists on doing it all himself. He says he wants to do something useful; he says he “likes the exercise.”   Last summer, after planting just three little plants, he was wiped out for the day. For Pop, a man his age, this is not the right kind of exercise. Summer before last, after planting five, maybe six flowers, the man literally gave himself a hernia. He walks his treadmill, he lifts his (light) weights, he stretches his stretching bands, he walks to the mailbox and back; this is his daily routine, and he’s got no problems maintaining it.  Crouching, reaching, digging, when it’s eighty, ninety degrees outside? No. That’s no good. Not for Pop. On the off chance I make it...

   👆 "Enhanced"  __________________________ Original 👇

This guy on the bench-press bench, sitting up, hunched over, picking his nose, all the while, there I am: eight sets on biceps, eight sets on triceps, three sets on chest, three sets on calves, and, all the while, I’m wondering whether or not he’s gonna get up the nerve to try a single set—a single rep —before the place closes in twenty-eight minutes. Do I want to stop my (futile) efforts to pump myself up for all the single ladies and fetch this guy a tissue? Part of me does—not because it’s a nice thing to do, no. Maybe he doesn’t give a shit who sees him digging for snot. And for that, in a way, maybe he deserves my respect. That’s my problem: I give a shit. Or too much of a shit. In any case, when I leave, five minutes to close, he’s still there, picking his nose.  16 January 2005

 

Pop didn’t want a big party for his 90th birthday, but he got one anyway. He had a good time, too. Now his eldest daughter is planning another big bash for his 95th birthday, three months from now. She doesn’t intend for it to be a surprise party, but she’s reluctant to mention it to him. “Hold off until the end of the month,” I told her. By then, he’ll have healed from his fall. He fell yesterday, too, but it wasn’t a serious fall. The man’s always been in too much of a hurry to get wherever he’s headed. Back when I was a kid, and grandma was still alive, and we three went out to eat, Pop was always in a hurry to get from the car to the restaurant, and then, afterward, from the restaurant back to the car. Like it was a race. Grandma, though, she always took her time. If there was ever any need to hurry, I wasn’t aware of it. That said, back then, I was largely oblivious to everything, and obliviousness is more blissful than ignorance. Anyway, if Pop’s sick or hurting now, he won’t be ...

Something less lucid, perhaps? Teresa bounced the ball in his direction. She did so on purpose. Her purpose was to win his attention. She was successful. He looked her way after the ball hit him in the head. He let the ball hit him in the head and bounce away. He looked at her, generally displeased, and then he looked toward the ball, bouncing away – bouncing down the driveway – bouncing into traffic. She said, “You’re supposed to bounce it back.” The next time the ball bounces it should signify a change in current temperature. That’s what balls do. They signify change. But only when they bounce. When the bounce is high, that means something. When the bounce is love or when the bounce is low that means something else. But how to tell the difference between a love bounce and a low bounce? It all depends on who does the bouncing, and why. Boobs bounce, too. He tries not to look. Sometimes he looks, but he tries not to look. He focuses on faces, but then he’s accused of staring. So what’s...