baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A rapidly executed series of notes So I went over there to discuss my need for glissando. I passed on the shower and drove all grublike to his house with a rough mix in tow, knocked on the front door and waited-not exactly nervously-thinking that a face familiar would greet the ring of the bell. But then she appeared. I've heard all about her. And although, I'm certainly wise enough to know a one-sided story when I hear one, I couldn't help but wonder why in Jimi's name she was answering this particular front door at this particular hour of the sunrise. Her with the hair all tousled in that morning after fashion. Her with the blanket carelessly draped around her body for warmth and privacy. Her who was fucking some other guy at some mediocre red-roofed hotel when she was supposed be visiting her family. Her who refused to go through marriage counseling. I stifled the urge to say, "Good morning, slut of the decade, what the fuck are you doing here?" and ducked in past her good morning smile and directed all my attention to the felines. Lovely felines, they are. Rolling around on the carpet with their claws extended-yawning their sleepy yawns and looking at me with those beautiful feline eyes. We made our not so silent greetings-me privately knowing that they too were wondering why her white honda civic with the well-worn decals was dripping its sludge on the driveway. "So, you're recording a new CD?" "Yup." "Where do you record?" "Here in town. Home on my G4. At the park. At the beach." "Really?" "Yup. Really." Like me, felines are impatient. And just when I had about exhausted my unfamiliarity and newness to the cats, thus losing my one distraction from unwelcome conversation, he appeared-fresh out of the shower, sporting a weird tilt of the lip, and ready to discuss my need for glissando. We retreated to his Mac and went over the notes-the key signature, the suspended fourths. He had his doubts about my arrangement. I had my doubts about him. On the way to an unplanned meeting with two burritos, he explained. She was supposed to drop off their daughter and head back up the coast two nights ago. Instead, much to his dismay, she stayed and hasn't relinquished the remote ever since. He would have preferred, he said, that she leave. But, he didn't feel comfortable telling the mother of his beloved children-wife of over nine years-friend of over 10, to pull out of the driveway; her picture hangs in the hallway, their past hangs around his neck. Maybe I could come over with my Mesa Boogie and play a rendition of "Kill The Guy With The Ball" for her. Maybe, he could take the batteries out of the remote control. "Maybe," I thought aloud, "she has realized the error of her ways and wants to super glue the family unit back together." He was silent. I mean, not everyone can forgive. Nor can everyone forget. It's easy to get stuck in those gray in-betweens of forgiveness-those oddly-shaped feelings that blur the borders of love and disgust. I'm not sure where he falls in the grand scheme of human emotion-but I can empathize with his annoyance. This was a couple who had it all-a family, a career, a nice house-a life complete with all the trimmings of the American Dream. But, for reasons that neither he nor I can fully understand, those things weren't enough for her. Several indiscretions and more than a few injustices later, they both woke from the dream. He alone-and she with another man. It's funny how men are somehow saddled with this stereotype. The man runs away, the man cheats-the man gets sick of his wife-the man sleeps with the woman down the hall. It's funny, and it's unfair. I believe that the indiscretions are more equitable than stereotypes would lead us to believe. Face it-the fact that some of us are lousy human beings has nothing to do with wether we've got a dick or a clit. The shit spreads both ways. Daily obligations cut our lunch conversation short. We threw away what was left of our burritos, and I took him home-back to his crowded circular driveway. "So, you're sure you'll be able to have my glissando by the weekend?" I asked. "The glissando," he said through the open passenger window, "is the easy part." 9:10 p.m. - 2001-11-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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