I made arrangements with my transportation to stop by fast food after psychotherapy. I’ve been in the mood for something curbside, ever since then. The driver acquiesced, and I bought some really tasty food. You would have thought I was eating a sirloin, when I finally got to sit down with that food, cooling off though it was.
But that’s not the way it happened from the get go. The driver needed to be in motion most of the time she was out, and who am I to argue? She wouldn’t allow me to sit tacit with my fast food, and if I had problems, it amounted to mine, not her’s. Oh, and would I be certain to know we won’t be back to do fast food very often in the future?
Workaholic is what that driver is.
I wanted to drink some milkshake in the van, and when I got the cup, there was seat belt I had ignored. Well, you know what happened? The cup wouldn’t hold up well between my knees, at least, not altogether. I finally got the shake up in one hand before I noticed anything wrong.
There sat milkshake man with multiplying globs of milkshake all over his blue jeans and more were on the way, unstoppably, to decorate milkshake man’s best shirt. The blue jeans were washable, but that shirt? It didn’t look good. There was no way to pass the broken cup forward, returning it to the special holder up front, since the driver was elbow deep in traffic.
She had enough education to have her own thoughts.
They arrived home presently.
Milkshake man proceeded into the building, like a clown.
Fortunately, the cup had not lost quite all it’s soundness.
The driver had a plastic bag in the van for such emergencies. The receptionist at home only smiled and asked what I had done. It was like one, final moment of glory, that is, two moments in one day, for me to tell her, and a third would be to tell you. I’d write an email to my therapist about it, but then, I wouldn’t get to catch her eye when I tell the tale.
She’s listened to my tales of woe – and figured she doesn’t need a guy like me, whatever ‘a guy like me’ is? Classifying people has been around me everywhere I go, for a lifetime now. I have more woes than a person can entertain in one sitting, including to a professional psychotherapist. Those guys don’t know what to make of me anymore than anyone else does.
That’s what’s different about me.
The difference fills volumes.
I have too much to say to suit the bladder.
It doesn’t matter how precious my intimations, or how rare my talents in the context of one and the same chronic schizo-affective. My brilliance happens to be stellar, which doesn’t matter to anyone who matters. But what she’s looking for is something I do have to offer, but remains obligated to obscure. Now which of us is being coy? If I tell the entire story, it’ll go right over her head.
If she’s as brilliant as her aura says, or no – now I’m dreaming so deeply I need to wake myself up again. If I were to entrust such a paper to that woman’s pretty head, I’d be padding the pavement with my trusty rollator, looking for a new place to stay, about as fast as a lamb’s tail switches. My little confessions would wind their way to that, and people would be reading between the lines.
Maybe what she needs are a couple of stories about my pedigree, of whom my forebears were, and what they’ve accomplished. Maybe stories would thaw her a little, or is she frozen still? I’ve already gotten a woman with obligations elsewhere, and I’m not even married. My heart is smitten thoroughly enough, and must surrender to rejection every which way I turn.
I’ve obviously put my openness on the line.
How could she not know I’m in love with her?
She’s so perpetually employment-oriented, she’ll sacrifice a lifetime, to maintain the status quot. Does she fathom what it is she’s saying “No” to? Maybe she thinks she needs the job and the boyfriend to pay the bills. I’m a total fool, involved in an unrequited love, but I’ve finally decided I don’t care whether I’m accepted or not.
I’m enjoying sweet sorrow.
I live in perpetual suspense, to catch a glimpse of her in the context of her work day, as she may promenade by, perchance, I’d hear her voice once again, like a brook talking to the stones. I’ll be her fool, as long as I can adore her at all. Afar would be just fine with me. There I am – and aren’t I way past silly – still keeping her name to myself.
So romantic, I choke on her name.
I wouldn’t want her job to come under duress, lest I betray her.
Like a boy averting the derision of the other boys.
Then I’ll be required to sweat in that infernal monkey suit, while listening to that God awful Mendelssohn. She gives me the feminine Victory Parade. I’ll be forced to endure that perfectly horrid, perpetual presence of children, and all that mockery children instinctively provide. We’ll spend a few years of hapless torment, while she and I plumb ‘the real us,’ whatever that is.
I find myself making that mandatory long distance phone call to Heaven, to let my Dad’s attorney know of my utter, unmitigated folly, to which he’ll sanctimoniously decline, leaving me high and dry. I’ll be completely incapable of supporting the brood, along with the queen of a lifetime, pregnant and working in a kitchen.
Finally, the little wife will grow weary of my blatant incapacity. She’ll be casting the Chinaware against the walls in utter frustration. I cannot appeal to Dad from beyond the grave, anymore than I can appeal to the gruff, old man, although I’ve done what little I can. I surreptitiously abscond with the family transportation, and fly away!
Out of a sheer terror of my own imagination, I take to the highway to fling my lack of focus onto this horrid world. I’ll have broken the heart of one I meant to coddle. There exists a brood of monsters, left to languish with the rest of the world. I refuse to consider staging “an accident” on the highway, the lost of hope might provide even an insurance policy.
I would hope that one act of abstinence would exonerate me with Heaven.
I have failed in the same fashion I’ve played out for a lifetime.
It’s just not fair to anyone involved.
My weeping itself, mirrors the weeping I’ve left behind. I go home instinctively, and submit myself eagerly, to a heretofore dreaded lifetime of hospitalization, where they’d reluctantly let me in, because I’m ‘a guy like me.’ At last, I resort to babbling incoherently, in utter desperation, providing the doctors what I can scarcely recall, allowing me into the fold once more.
I spend my basket weaving years smoking cigarettes again, and relearning dialect.