I bask in the solitude of being a celibate hermit. There is no need to get dressed up, no need to go out, no need to shave, and no need to compromise.
On Saturday I get out for a decent bicycle ride and hop on the motorcycle. I need to get some miles on it to get it broken in properly. I have two speed runs during the ride where I reach 120 mph. This is a bit above where I should be for breaking the motorcycle in, but the bike just feels so fast, so fun, and so stable.
Whereas a couple weekends ago I had requests to help children ice skate and to babysit kids, this weekend I have requests to help out friend's parents. I help Brandon and his father move a peach tree. We pick up the tree at a nursery and deliver it to his house. It is getting late - close to the opening of the art gallery - so I leave. And get interrupted on the phone by another friend who wants me to help his father out. "I can squeeze in 15 minutes. I'll meet you at the Signal Hill Home Depot in 10 minutes."
We have just finished loading the truck up with supplies when I hear somebody calling my name. I look over and it takes me a while to recognize who it is. Let's say that it is Person A (for ancient history) - a person who has not been written about in the diary and who has been absent from Ray's sphere of observation and action for 16 years. By now my friend and his father are in the car and so I hold up my cellphone and say, sternly, to Person A, "You have five minutes".
Person A starts in with, "I waited for two hours for you at the airport and I got on the flight without you". And Person A continues on, rapidly at times, staccato at times, and emotional at times. "I ended up on the left bank without you. I wondered why you didn't show up. Everything was taken care of after my graduation."
I am so confused. I haven't the faintest idea what the airport scenario is about. But there are feelings coming back to me and I can feel that there could be tears too. But I say, with all of the monotone of a launch controller, "I don't know what you're talking about regarding the airport. And you have four minutes".
Person A goes on to explain the airport situation to me and it is obvious that the letter, the tickets, and the ride never made it to my knowledge. Person A is upset. I have not taken my eyes off her.
It is my turn to speak. The launch controller monotone is still there "You have three minutes." I look over and see that my friend and his father are watching the situation from the car. There is silence. The launch controller monotone comes back again with "I took all of the money that I saved for the trip and spent it on drugs. I put all of that money up my nose and into my veins. Because you didn't want me in your life anymore. And you have two minutes, thirty seconds."
"I heard that. I stayed away after that. I didn't know what to do. Both that you left me at the airport and that you were out of control. Gina told me about it. The trips to Hollywood and East LA at 5 in the morning."
I adjust my Serengettis, hold up the cellphone, and announce "You have one minute, twenty seconds."
The situation is getting desperate. I am trying with all of my might to hold the tears back and keep my distance. Person A is in tears - but still talking in rapid-fire sentences, phrases, and keywords. (Keywords that only we knew about.) And she adds "I kept the ring. I have it to this day."
I give some room here "You just bought a thirty second bonus. You have one minute, thirty seconds". There is a lump in my throat. There is a lump in my chest. There is a lump in my stomach. There are oceans of tears waiting to come out but I don't allow them to.
Person A is back into rapid-fire mode. There are things that make sense. And there are things that don't make sense. There are questions "Are you seeing anyone? Do you have kids now?"
"No and no" comes out of my mouth without emotion. I don't know how I am not breaking down also. "You have twenty seconds."
Person A goes beyond the time limit. Finally I have to stop her. I realize that Person A has not said a thing about her life, how she is doing, or if she is happy. I finally say, "It sounds like you are doing well. I have to go." And I jump in the truck and drive off.
I have to explain to my friend and his father what just happened, but I blow them off at the delivery sight with, "I have that art gallery opening. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
I get to the art gallery opening. The artist is of mixed Persian/Greek/Italian/European, speaks Spanish, and like to draw pictures related to Cuba. I stay for about 20 minutes - it is just not my type of art. And I need some time to myself.
I get home, pop open many wine coolers, and relax. And try to forget what just happened. My hands are shaking. But there are no tears - now when it is more acceptable there are no tears. And there aren't really any deep feelings. Somehow they dissipated themselves in the parking lot of the Home Depot. But I do drink myself (almost) into oblivion.
I wake up Sunday morning and get out for a bicycle ride. It is as if the entire Home Depot incident did not happen. But it did. I try to pretend that it did not happen so that I don't have to think about how much different my life would be right now if I had received the letter and the airplane tickets.