Dale pawns a shirt off on the downtown department store because the neck is too tight or the sleeves too long or the white is too white; it doesn’t matter why. What does matter is that it was unwrapped, laundered, worn, and the receipt thrown away at least six months ago. (fraud)
“Well…” the salesgirl winces trying to figure out a nice way to say, “no.” I spot blond summer-weight suits on deep clearance, winter is setting in.
“Are these suits on clearance?” I ask hoping to draw her attention more to the notion that I am fingering the goods than that I am ignoring the ENORMOUS sign overhead stating the fact. Anyway, my ruse works. She issues a “store credit”, and I buy a suit; the alterations of which cost more than the shirt. (right.)
Last Friday night, Hal Holbrook played Mark Twain: Tonight! at the Aronoff, this town’s nod to Robert Venturi Post-Modernism including all the gimmicks but sans the sense of humor.
“Better get tickets.” I suggest to Dale, “it is benchmark Teatro Americano. He is not getting any younger. I’ve never seen him live.” I dressed the part. (blond suit.)
Being crammed in an auditorium full of conservatism where every quip in favor of our legislative system and every snarl against those who execute it meet with vociferous applause wears me down.
“Mercy! I’m hungry.” I mention on our way out of the theater. ”I could do with a small salad or cup of soup,” lying against the fact that I could have eaten five courses plus soup plus nuts plus friandises. The hour presses upon Midnight when all good princesses ought to be in their carriages speeding away from the palace.
In spite of the waitress who is more interested in her iPhone than our nutrition, we manage to order minced chicken wrapped in crisp lettuce, flatbread which anywhere else would be “quesadillas”, and edamame for the table. Were I swilling a tall glass (I mean TALL glass) of vodka & water-no ice-no lemon-no straw (double+) I could mistake myself for thirty years younger. Can naked and flagrant be far behind?
“Temps perdus” wistful, a friend of mine says. ”Temps perdus.”
Saturday morning AA features four emotional break-downs, three “grateful to be here’s” and a newcomer all before lunch, nap, and Aroldis Chapman’s giving away J. J. Hoover’s near-perfect game in the bottom of the ninth, (“really?”). Sunday services and an organ concert in the afternoon precede Monday Morning Writer’s Group yet another place where “call your sponsor” does not apply. Another emotional meltdown suspends any reading.
“Pass the tissues, please.” (Is that mean?)
The clouds which swallow up Oklahoma City in tornadic calamity fall softly here on the river as afternoon thundershowers. The lingering wet puts earthworms and snails on the move compelling them to cross the road.
