100 Pages In

I'm up, so I switch the computer on, and the WIFI, but don't wait. For the flashing red globe that turns to white and flashes quickly, like a heart working hard. Too hard, for having been at rest over part of the night. Must've been running, running somewhere. Maybe in a dream, do WIFIs dream?

Then the beat slows. Like it's suddenly at rest. As in a cardiac stress test. Like June 6th, for me, but without the radioactive dye running through it.

Then the flashing stops. The globe becomes a steady, white dot on the tower. And below it, the four parallel, curving bands, smallest on the bottom, largest on top appear. White, steady, two lights, one above the other, on the tower. You have internet; you have WIFI, it says.

But I'm not watching. Not this time. I'm in no hurry, not like usual. I sit down in the easy chair. In the corner, with the ottoman. Piled with books, mostly, just a small space leftover for feet.

The one where everyone sits down and says, "Ahh, what a great chair." You know, times when I've brought them upstairs, while I look for something on the computer. The two lights steady, one above the other, not flashing.

Then, looking around, "D'ya have enough books," they'll say.

And I'll laugh about the books. Stacked everywhere. And papers, the piles not tidy. She used to hate that, the papers. "Such a waste," she'd say, "Do you even read them?"

The truth is, I don't. Once in a while, I look for an obit that I know I've printed. Because they tell the story. Things nobody told you about them, while they were alive. The only way you know, sometimes.

Like Dave, my nemesis in high school. Good trumpet player, great showman, but never practiced. Probably, I later realized, because he always worked at his family's dry cleaning business. Always wore starched and pressed dress shirts. Neat and tidy. Always. One of the perks, I guess.

Anyway, I was first chair, but he was the showman. Played Gershwin's "Summertime" as a stand-up solo in concert band one year. Later on, became a Cantor. Didn't know that, until I read his obit. See what I mean?

Always wished we could've talked, you know, later. After all of that. But I never went to the reunions and don't know if he did either. But often thought about him and his "Summertime" solo. Brassy, confident, beautiful.

Anyway, I sit down in the comfortable chair. Wait a few, roll up the sleeve, and do the BP again. 125 over 70, not bad. Even though I ate at my daughter's the evening before. She says I probably don't get ENOUGH salt in my diet. You do need SOME, she says.

They're back from Florida, Beck, Jim, the girls. I hear about the trip, about Disney, and I let myself eat.

Now, I take my BP and read from The Dog Stars again. 100 pages in. The ambush at the trailer. Bangley admonishing Hig for his tactical mistakes. For almost getting himself killed, surviving by luck alone.

At some point, I glance over at the computer and it's booted up, no problem. For a minute, I'm relieved. But then, things don't fix themselves. Not usually. Computers, sometimes yes, but. Not where I come from. Gears, bolts, nuts, they don't fix themselves.

And I'm not lucky, even with computers, that way.

More like Bruce Bangley, the world where I'm from.

I'd like to be lucky, to dream, like Hig. To write, like Heller. But.

So I sit in my chair, feet up. In the small space not covered by books.

I look over at the two lights, one above the other. And wait...

LPK
Dreamwidth
4.20.2019