the life of richie

LIKE A LOADED GUN

Posted in is by Rich on August 6, 2011

On Monday mom goes in for what I refer to as her “boob job.” The next day she gets a call back: something suspicious with her Mommyography. This causes much concern for the family. Mom is unable to sleep the night before her second appointment, which is on a Friday.

Meanwhile, the debt crisis is –– well, catastrophe is averted! for now. (“Wake me when we are all finally bankrupt.”) Aunt Margy will get her social security check. She will be able to eat, at least this week. How many more weeks of food will there be?

Life becomes more and more desperate for the living. The images of starvation on t.v. ––

(Amanda texts: “I’m engaged! Call u soon!”)

“Where is the honest to god rock bottom?” one must wonder. “How can anyone not be made with desperation?” What is there left but to –– run away and start a new life? Maybe that is just what Caroline is doing: starting a new life inside of her, fostering in her womb a new world in a child. What is it that will be my child? I wonder; knowing, I know. So why not just do it already?

(And Amanda –– starting a new life, too.)

On Friday, the doctor reveals the confusion: calcium deposits! Mom nearly collapses with relief. She dodged another bullet, she says. This one more time. But how many more times can we just dodge the bullet –– when the gun is already loaded and cannot be unloaded? Eventually it must fire. Eventually.

And on that day children…

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MOSAIC

Posted in is by Rich on July 23, 2011

Caroline and I catch To Catch a Thief on Monday at the Arts Center. “My grandmother used to say, ‘Grace Kelly is someone who doesn’t sweat,'” Caroline says. We are not yet sweating ourselves (…though we will be by Thursday). On Tuesday, we meet Karen for lunch at Mosaic. Karen is taking a pottery class. She comes to lunch speckled in the day’s clay. Her teacher says: “The clay doesn’t care about you. But you must control the clay and not allow the clay to control you.” We eat jerk chicken and rice & peas and sweet plantains and cool, unsweetened iced tea. These are the last cool days ever. On Wednesday, as Karen and I drive to the Union game in her Jeep Wrangler, with all the windows open, we can sense that It is coming. The heat doesn’t care about you. We stand in the parking lot drinking Anchor Steam and Summerfest beers, long after the official start of the match against Everton, and leave the stadium not too long after the half. There is still no score when we leave, but later we find out that the Union has won (the Union have won). On Friday, after work, dad and I drive down to Avalon to pick up his pants from the haberdashery there. The heat index is 115-120°. We are in the oven now, thrown into the kiln (the kiln doesn’t care about you) being cooked, and who knows what we will look like when this is all over. “Sea Isle is a strange town,” my father says as we drive down through the shore towns; I am wont to agree with him. Norway is struck by a bombing and mass shooting; we listen on the radio as Obama announces that the debt talks have broken down. “How can anyone support the Republican party?” my dad says. My Libertarian friends on Facebook rile me up again. (I find Libertarians insufferable: I’m sorry but I do.) By Saturday I have had enough of It all: of the heat, of the news, of Libertarians, of the tourists, of my car as the air conditioning compressor breaks again. I want to just leave my hot car in the middle of the street and walk away.

I want to just walk away from it all.

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