They say we live in a simulation. Or that we could. Or might. To be honest, I don’t know what the line of reasoning is, and I don’t particularly care. I’ve got things to do.
But you’ve got to admit, that if you were in a simulation and if you were British, this might be a good time to restart the simulation from the checkpoint just before that Brexit vote.
What a bunch of fools, he says. The would never happen here, he says, glancing around nervously.
Late in the afternoon. The sun is beginning to disappear behind the canyon walls. But the sky is still light and blue. And the air is still hot.
We go down to the creek as all the summer’s day revelers are hiking out. We sit in the cool water. We listen to it flow.
There’s wildlife down there.
And signs of civilization, too.
Oh the poor souls on the International Olympic Committee… Now that Oslo has snubbed them come to their senses, the only remaining bidders for the 2022 winter games are Kazakhstan and China. (What does that say? Discuss.)
“Senior politicians in Norway appear not to have been properly briefed on the process and were left to take their decisions on the basis of half-truths and factual inaccuracies,” the IOC executive director clucked to the press.
How about this for a truth: The IOC demanded that (among a long list of other perks) that they (the committee — that bastion of full-truth and accuracy) be granted a meeting with the king and that drinks at the royal reception be paid by the palace (or by the local organizing committee, but certainly not by the IOC who are there, after all, to schmooze and booze and … well do those things that global elites are so want to do).
So then Oslo pulls out of the running. And the IOC executive director thinks that the Norwegian politicians have not been properly briefed.
What a perfect example of our globe-trotting, elite-centric world. Olympexit. Good riddance.
There were several people laughing in the background when they picked up the phone. The woman who answered was chuckling.
“You’ve answered my question already,” I said. “I was wondering if you were open today. It sounds like you all are having fun.”
We were planning to meet some friends there for lunch — to buy a few groceries there rather than packing picnics ourselves (because we were all feeling kind of lazy). We were planning to sit in the shade in the breeze under the big Oak trees. Ranga said they’d bring board games. Anthony said to count them in. I said we’d bring folding chairs — just in case.
“Ha ha,” the woman on the phone laughed. “Yes we’re having fun. We love our jobs. And it’s a good day!”
I’ve been going there since they opened many years ago. I used to take Ben there on Saturday nights after I’d driven into town for the weekend. We’d eat, and then he’d run around with all the kids and climb on the playscape. I’d sit and watch and listen to the live music and enjoy feeling part of something. Those were hard years, and feeling part of something was important.
So anyway… we’re going there this afternoon. Because they’re open. Because we’ll have fun. And it because is indeed a good day.
From the back of the office, it could have been hard to find your way out. There were halls that went off in one direction or another. There were waiting areas where you had to turn even though it wasn’t obvious. But there were also signs. At each step where you found yourself asking “where am I supposed to go?”, there were signs with arrows pointing to Checkout. So I followed the signs.
“Sir, window 2 is available for checking out,” a woman said as soon as I wandered in. (I must have had that look on my face.)
The woman there was busy. She was fishing thru a paper bag, pulling out an envelope. And she had evidently just pulled out a “bouquet” of … well the company’s name says it all: an edible arrangement. No flower bouquet, this. Instead someone had sent her an arrangement of … edibles.
There were slices of pineapple on sticks. And pieces of canteloupe on sticks. And kiwi slices. And strawberries. And watermelon balls. And there were morsels covered in dark chocolate. And others covered in white-striped chocolate. It was a huge arrangement …and colorful …and…
“Wow,” I said.
“Really. That’s what I say,” she said, smiling from ear to ear.
“There’s enough here for…,” and I glanced at her colleague at window 1, “…for the whole office!”
They laughed. “It’s true,” she said.
“Someone must like you.”
“It’s from my boyfriend,” she said.
“Oh…,” I said. “Now that’s some kind of boyfriend.”
“He is,” she said. “It’s about time.”
I was worried about him. He had been absent from his usual perch. And then one day I spotted him there. He was wounded: a juicy gash torn into his ribs. He looked frail and withered.
So we made a point to have water nearby, and although he was often nowhere to be seen, he would periodically show up, his long tail curled against the stabby blades of the agave.
But then he went missing.
Today as we returned from the greenbelt, there he was on the side of the house: evidence that he’s getting around a little more. His color was bright. His wound and he looked much better.
I like to think setting out the water was key.
Screw up your face. Squint your eyes. Squeeze ‘em tight.
The sky is still blue. The sun is still bright. The water is clear. And the falls are still white.
This is a mighty fine thing to see, a perfect place to be on a hot summer’s day. What more can be said?
Old Man Sycamore stands with his toes in the clear/greenish water of Barton Creek. Beat up by the springtime floods, little of his crown remaining, he pushes up new sprouts from the base of his trunk, an eternal optimist — what are his alternatives, after all? A bright red Cardinal whispers words of encouragement in his ears and then flies off.
Dogs splash in the water. Big dogs. Little dogs. Timid dogs. Happy dogs. Miss Izzy watches them and wags her tail. And she watches the kids playing in the water fall upstream. She would gladly go home with them if she could, but she can’t, so she sits beside me in a little spot of shade that won’t be here for long, beside a slab of limestone with green moss growing on the wet edges that glisten in the noon day sun.
Before long, our shade is no more, and we take refuge on the far bank, on smooth limestone gravel under the canopy of an American Elm. Or rather I sit in the shade, Miss Izzy having chosen a comfortable spot in the sun where she can warm her bones that got chilled from her swim across the creek.
There was a shady spot at the far end of the Walgreen’s parking lot. After dropping Trudy off at the door, I drove across the lot and backed into the shade. I turned off the car, rolled down the windows on and turned on the radio.
A man was walking in the sun across the parking lot and turned in my direction when he spotted me. When he got close, he mumbled something. I turned down the radio.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s been a long time,” he said. “I haven’t seen you since I left.”
It was hot, and he was sweating. And he hadn’t shaved in several days. And his clothes were dirty and rumpled. He fiddled with a cigarette lighter in his left hand.
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he said. He pointed across the street and said something about the woods behind the shopping center.
“By the creek?” I asked. “On the rocks?”
“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”
I frowned a bit and said, “Are there snakes back there?”
You see, this time of year in Texas, when the sun is hot and the temperatures stay high at night, anyone knows to be careful in the shade, to be careful walking on rocks and to be careful along the water, because… snakes. Bad snakes. Because they come out at night.
His eyes widened. “Shoot,” he said as he leaned down to pull up one leg of his pants.
“You can’t see it,” he said, “But the scar is still here from when I stepped on a cottonmouth. It didn’t hurt that much — just felt like a scratch, but the snake opened its white mouth and tried to bite me again.”
My eyes widened. “What happened?”
“I ran out of that woods without any clothes on. I mean I was butt naked.” (That’s what he said.) “I ran towards the street and blacked out.”
He looked at me.
“When I came to, I was in an ambulance. They asked me if I captured the snake.” He laughed. “No, I didn’t capture that snake, I told ‘em.”
Then he looked at me and screwed up his face. “Those shots were the most painful thing I’ve ever felt.”
“I bet,” I said.
He turned his head and watched a woman who was walking across the parking lot.
“That’s my wife,” I said. “I’ve got to go.” And I started the car.
“Ok, man,” he said. He flicked his cigarette lighter a couple times and then walked off.
I know. I know I drew you a card. And I know I got you presents. Although it will come as no surprise to you that I don’t remember the presents I gave. But now, after a too-long delay, I can give you the present I intended.
The result of a long-in-coming collaboration between your loving husband and Ira Ono at whose cottage we stayed during our visit to the Big Island… a collaboration in which I waved my hands and said Blue like the water! and Red and black like Pélé! and in which Ira actually took care of the creating.
Yes, that shot reveals a little bit of clutter. Cereal boxes on the fridge. Tins of mints. Many pens. Many pencils. Barking dogs… But isn’t that the point? To remember that other time, all we need do is look up and remember Hawaii and rid ourselves of the clutter.
Happy Birthday to the fair and industrious Trudy.
© jumpingfish by David Hasan is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License