The Romanian Woman In The Spanish Cafe

The Romanian woman with her cigarettes

Told me I looked like the type who read Proust

Because I thought it was the right intellectual thing to do

And that I probably viewed all Eastern Europeans as former Soviets

Wrapped up as I was in convictions without any doubts

She blew smoke rings and smirked as I turned in my seat

Trying to avoid the clove-scented curling flame

For a second I considered foregoing any reply

Then abandoned that idea as being of the weakest conceit

Opting instead to offer her my hand and name

She replied with hers and gave the gentlest of shakes

Then asked if any of her analysis was correct

I told her I had never read Proust, had never considered it

And that not all Eastern Europeans being Soviets was easy to understand

If for a minute she could stop thinking all American men were rakes

Her face reddened a shade and she took a quick drink

Then said she was not judging me as much as sizing me up

As she had been told by friends much of what she had said

Finally meeting an American was causing her to think

She was expecting a bulldog not a cute little pup

Five minutes later and we were laughing, sharing jokes

Commenting to each other on our mutual misconceptions

I told her I expected Romanian women to be cold-hearted bears

She told me she expected American men to be boring cowpokes

We happily helped each other shed our misperceptions

Popeye Arm Syndrome (Another Reminder That Getting Old Is Not For Wussies)

   Note to self: Being old and deluding oneself into believing one can work as hard as one did in their youth is foolish and leads to injuries such as the one shown above (when your bicep tendon ruptures and the bicep muscle bunches up near the elbow) 

   Yeah...now all I have to do for the next several months is apply an icepack to reduce the swelling, rest my arm as much as possible, take an anti-inflammatory such as ibuprofen...or possibly have arthroscopic surgery to reattach the long bicep tendon...oy vey.

Jack O' Lantern's 2024

 

Takin' The Dog For A Ride

 

Halloween Houses 2024

 

Speak Your Own Truth Or Forever Keep Your Humble Opinion To Yourself

   Friend at the gym this morning said "Every person has a certain civic responsibility to speak their own truth at the ballot box."

   He followed up that statement with "My truth is that they're all crooks and I'm not voting for any of them."

   Which of course lead to a few quips banded about by the group of five of us who were then currently doing more standing around the equipment than using it, that not voting is in fact giving your vote to whoever you dislike the most, which is a moot point, I know.

   When pressed for what my own truth might be I steered far off topic and stated that I honestly believed that the best work the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac did in the 1970's was all on Warren Zevon albums.

   After that we all started working out again.

Dull & Devastating Realty At The Bus Stop

   She kept telling me that her only shortcomings were the occasional overdoses and the lack of personal hygiene. Other than those two minor issues, she was a good person and easy to get along with.

   So she said.

   Without invitation she had sat down close to me on the metal bench in the bus shelter and proceeded to mumble quietly about people being mean-spirited and narrow-minded, never giving her a chance to freely express herself without criticism.

   I had to stand up and move a way from her within minutes of her claiming a seat, as the smell was overwhelming. A combination of dead fish, music-fest port-a-potty, and the sweat of a hundred convict laborers after a day walking a back highway picking up trash in the middle of July in South Carolina. 

   She looked up at me when I moved away with blank eyes that said nothing other than "eh," obviously accustomed to the reaction.

   I felt compelled to stand there and listen to her talk however. Her voice was clear and she was well-spoken, though the contents of her dialogue was a seriously disconcerted ramble.

   She spoke of being at school and never having any real friends (for about one full minute), then about a stranger who offered to buy her new clothes the next (with a clear indication that the stranger was offending her with the offer). She also repeatedly stated that the transit police constantly harassed her, even when she had a valid fare card.

    I just stood and listened. The tale-tell scabs and scars of at least ten years of meth addiction were present on the exposed skin of her malnourished, prisoner-of-war body. She sketched and scratched her right calf with her right hand as she rocked slowly on the metal bench. 

   As with all meth addicts, especially women, it was difficult to ascertain how old she was. She looked like a hard fifty but most likely was still in her twenties.

   Her less-than-coherent banter finally turned to the one topic that she had most likely wanted to open with. She asked if I could give her some money, at least a few dollars. She stated without embarrassment that she would take off her top if I would give her five dollars.

   All of which I'd heard before from other lost souls. I shook my head no and when she said "C'mon man, why not," I said as stoically as I could that I had no intention of playing a role in her slow suicide, which is my standard reply when approached by panhandling addicts.

   She simply retorted "f*ck you man," collected her things, stood up, and walked away. 

   It was another ten minutes before the bus arrived, during which I watched as she walked down the long concourse before she approached another commuter to attempt to get a few bucks. 

  The thoughts that filled my mind were the same thoughts I always had in those situations - that she was someone's daughter or sister or even possibly mother, and she lost all connection with her family and friends due to the power of her addiction.

   I felt the same twinges of guilt I always did for not being able or willing to provide any help, and the same there but for the grace of god go I sense of gratitude.

   Meth is the devil.