Come on, stallion, buck up. Time to tell the filly here you're a bit long in the tooth.
"Here I am," I said, stepping in. "Is this a good time to talk?"
Coral looked up. Maybe it was the face she gave me, but I felt somewhat uncool with my raincoat hood up over my hatted head.
"Yes," Coral said, walking towards me. "I wanted to ask you about something I saw in your bed."
Thank God I'd just come in from the cold--it helped me to keep my cool. But I did notice Jessica losing hers.
Coral pulled up. "For my birthday I got a bonsai book; wanted to know if I could dig up a Japanese maple start I saw growing in your bed."
Oh, that bed. I threw a face of resignation at Jessica, then nodded at Coral. "Sure, help yourself. Nothing needs to get started in my bed."
"Come," Coral said, heading out of Surface Design, "I want to show you something."
I followed her into the hallway. "Say, Coral, I--"
"See," Coral said, pulling up to the display case, "these are the samples from my tapestry class."
"Nice," I said, joining her, "but, see, Coral, I--"
"See," Coral said, bending over, "this is my sample."
"Say, that's something, but I--"
"But this one," Coral said, pointing, "this is the one I like." And away she went, hands on her knees, detailing what she liked about her classmate's sample.
It came to me then; how I could open the door to my old age. I'd learned a thing or two about tapestries from all those dumb Fiber Art questions I'd asked Coral--thing or two enough to make the errant comment, anyway.
Sliding the hood off my head, I bent over alongside Coral. "Yes," I said, scratching the glass with a fingernail, "some fine needle work there."
Coral looked me in the ear. "They're tapestries; no needle work involved."
My plan had worked; she was looking where I'd wanted her to look--in my ear hole. See them, Coral? See the hairs growing there? Oh, how mature of me; stepping out of my old-age closet, exposing the very hairs all mothers school their teenage daughters to look out for in dirty old men.
Maybe Coral needed glasses, or maybe it was Jessica exiting Fibers, but instead of commenting on my ear hole hair, Coral raised the sleeve of her mohair sweater. "Oh, the time," she said, straightening up. "I'd love to talk, but I've got to go wake my friend."
Damn, she couldn't talk. Well, that was that then. No, I couldn't very well talk long-in-the-tooth, if the girl couldn't talk at all.
Coral headed back into Surface Design to get her things. "That's right," I said, following her, "you had company for your birthday."
"Yes, Carmen's staying through Thanksgiving weekend. And then my sister's flying in this afternoon, and then her friend, Jill from Denver, is flying in later."
"Damn," I said, "what a hellish weekend." Then I caught myself. "Though fun."
No, the holiday crowd in the small condo was horror to my monk self; had served time in that capacity with the ex-wife, thank you much. I thought then of Trent, trapped inside with all those yap-happy women.
Poor guy.
After Coral explained how her friend Carmen had trouble getting out of bed, I got conversation back to the birthday girl. "Hey, Coral, how was your birthday, anyway?"
"It was a good day . . . mostly."
"I ask because things always go bad on my birthday. Ya, things always go bad because I was born on a bad number--the 29th."
Coral didn't say anything.
"Numerology," I said, enunciating like a professor. "So watch out for those 29ths. Oh, no, history's riddled with things going bad on those damned 29ths."
"Like what?"
"Like back in 1864, The Sand Creek Massacre of Native Americans. That happened November 29th. And Wounded Knee, back in 1890, that massacre happened December 29th."
"Sounds like a bad day for Native Americans, anyway."
"No, it's a bad day for everyone. Take Bob Dylan. July 29th, '66, he wrecks his bike."
Coral, distracted, waved towards the open Surface Design door. I heard running and in flew Trent, throwing me the stern as he landed between us.
The bastard.
Observing the couple discussing flight arrivals of their guests, I caught myself cocking my head right, left, like my ex-wife's dog used to cock its head when she and I argued.
Seeing myself as a dog, reminded me of something I'd read in some karma book or another. How, if you don't resolve your hatred of a person in this life, you come back as that person in your next. No, put that on your list to do: Resolve hatred of dogs.
Trying to come up with a game plan whereby a guy might take a turn on his bad dog karma, my eye lit on some spots on the corner of a Surface Design table. Boy, those were some nice spots. No, that's how a guy fixes his bad dog karma; he takes home a litter of stray spots.
I unpocketed my Swiss Army knife.
****
No comments:
Post a Comment