"Twelve to Four"

     I'm driving eastward along I-64 at a brisk 70 mph clip, although not through the construction zone that fast.  An acquaintance of mine did that a few weeks back and earned himself a $200+ fine, something I can ill-afford.  It's sunny, but not of the blinding variety - there's enough of an overcast as to not be squinty-eyed or need to wear sunglasses.  I still wear mine, though.  Because it's sunny enough, and because I can.  Black t-shirt, jeans clean, crisp and blue enough to be worn out, neatly trimmed Van Dyke, "growing out"-stage hair just long enough to become tossed in the windstream of the open window... I look cool.  Damn my self-effacing nature, right now I am cool.

     I'm at the library, explaining my card situation to the cute librarian who takes pity on my non-resident status and the idea of paying ten dollars to borrow material.  How is it that most guys never recognize the inherent attractiveness of smart women until far too late for everyone's best interest?  She takes the payment for the renewal for my card and minimal overdue fee, and offers to reserve the books I'd asked about.  I tell her that I'll take care of it, thank her profusely for her help, and walk to the elevator.  The damning of my self-effacing nature doesn't extend so far as to make googly eyes at the desk clerk.  I head upstairs and, miracle of miracles, actually find a good deal of my selections available.  Almond, Goldberg, Knapp, Dick, Lamott... I check out pleasantly non-perturbed, with a copy of Martha Cornog's "The BIG Book of Masturbation: From Angst to Zeal" thrown in as a last-minute "why not?" selection.  I wonder if using this last one as bathroom reading material qualifies as ironic, Alanis-style... or instructional material.

     I'm at the lesser-rate music store, where the instruments are good but not great and the employees matchingly laid-back, most likely getting high on their breaks out back.  After all, it's always packed with deliveries not put away, and the shelves unmatched with stock.  I find the adapter I'd forgotten to order online, haggle down a 20% discount off list that we can both live with, and ask if I can hang around a bit playing.  With a nonchalant wave of his hand, I'm off to the basses.  There's nothing worship-worthy here, but all worthy players and a Godin A5 semihollow that I could visualize myself playing in a coffeehouse, the smell of freshly ground beans and swirling smoke becoming all too rich.  I leave before I begin discussing their layaway program.

     I'm at the high-end music store, where the instruments are top-notch, packed like sardines, and the employees high-strung to make a sale.  No drug use here, unless it's coke to help with the "Can I help you?/Finding everything alright?" pitch repeated at clockwork intervals.  I head back to the repair guy, discuss a defret job, and mentally roll my eyes at both his methods and pricing.  Christ, I had one done in New York, capital of high labor costs for less money.  Thanks, but I'll find a place in Cincinnati through people.  I make a quick stop at the Geddy Lee signature Fender Jazz bass, and play about half of "Show Don't Tell".  Say what you will, but at least it's not "Tom Sawyer" or "Subdivisions".

     I'm at the local sandwich shop, immensely enjoying as close to an Italian sub as you can find in Lexington (hey, it's got Genoa salami, capicola and provolone) and a root beer.  The bread is fresh, and it's healthier than McDonalds.  I look at the college students at the dive next door, and wonder just how much separates myself from them.  Visually, not much - I look far younger than I actually am, and given my almost year-long exercise program probably in nearly as good shape physically.  Mentally, not much as well. I'm a bit more responsible, a bit more world-weary... but that's before a few drinks or a hit off a bong.  Maturity equals out rapidly given the right circumstances... or substances.

     I'm driving back on I-64 wondering if the cats have been able to stand four hours on their own, when it hits me.  I haven't thought about the pain on a conscious level in a few hours.  Sure, it's still there - at this point, at these levels it can't be ignored unless the right pharmaceuticals are ingested... but it hasn't been the all-invasive presence that I've dealing with for eight days.  The past hasn't been fun.  The future could be better, or it could be worse.

     Now, however, is good.  Take what comes, and deal accordingly.