Aimless

I have to work on the book.  I have to work on The Book because I have had a favorable, or, at least, not scathingly denunciatory, letter from The Publisher.  The weight of The Book is swelling in its unfinished state in the way that dark matter acquires mass in outer space.  I just made up the latter, leaving it in place because I have neither the time nor inclination to do the research.  Which sums up much of my life.  And doesn't explain the ever-increasing mass of The Book.  But one must remember that the Jews are the people of The Book, and if anyone knows about the weight of things undone it is these people.  Who have not only schlepped about Creation bearing, and simultaneously following, The Book.  Until local conditions grew intolerable and they decided to book.

I do not believe that I ever used this expression, to book, with reference to making tracks, departing, hitting the road.  But I recall its use, probably in the late 1960s, or maybe the 1970s.  Certainly the 19 somethings.  For the 20 somethings are another era altogether, not really mine.  None of which matters, because I am already backing away from the computer screen, fluorescent home of The Book, having decided on the only other human option, Peet's.

Naturally, rolling out the door, I have a look at the garden.  The lettuce seeds that Marlou so generously spread have done absolutely nothing in the intervening five days.  The reasons for this are obscure, but I'm certain that some personal failure is manifest in the bareness of the earth.  There has been plenty of time to sprout.  There has been plenty of time for the lettuce seeds to introspect, to acquire personal insight and, well, to grow, during the five or so years they have resided in their packet.  I'm not certain when I purchased the tiny envelope with the butter lettuce label.  Certainly, it was post-9/11.  No, not certainly, but likely.  What is remarkable is that in addition to retaining these seeds, I actually knew where they were.  I still know where they are.  They are in the ground, and they are not performing, and their expiration date...not guaranteed to germinate after July 2005, while that is simply no excuse.

Enough.  I begin the battery-powered asphalt journey to the heart of Menlo Park.  The heart is five blocks away, and I am riding the artery.  Odd that I can't remember the name of the street only one block from my own, having lived in the same location for 15 years.  Fallen Oak.  Twin Oak.  Fair Oaks.  Oak something.  Everything in Menlo Park is Oaky.  Not Okie, of coarse, at least not officially.  The problem is, in terms of social history and secret identity, there's plenty of Okie folk in and about our suburb.  They tend to quietly own things, like property.  But for now, I'm looking for the Oak, the one in the city emblem, which should be on the poster of the Menlo Park Chorus, which should be in the window of Draeger's Supermarket, but isn't.  Fuck coffee.  I roll inside and ask for Dave.  A checker offers to page him.  No, I say, I will track down the sucker myself.  Something has happened, gone terribly awry, and Dave will have to answer.

No sign of Dave at the meat counter.  A guy in Produce has made a recent sighting.  And there he is, striding away from the takeout battered cod display, doubtless trying to escape, knowing full well what he has done.  Or hasn't done.  That is the point, and it's a point I make right away.  Okay, so I kick off with a terribly-sorry-to-bother-you preamble, but I'm on the case.  Where is the poster, actually the two posters, proclaiming the Friday concert of the Menlo Park Chorus?  I am certain Dave is stunned, though he betrays no obvious signs.  The posters, I just know it, are languishing in his office.  They may even have found their way into one of the recycling bins outside.  Will he have a ready answer?  They are cleaning the windows, he says.  Old posters will come down, and new ones will go up.  Thank you, I say.  I check my watch.  I have successfully avoided writing for almost 20 minutes.  No, 25.  Cool.

Even better, I have ensured the continuance of the Menlo Park Chorus.  Yes, choral music as we know it was briefly in peril, my procrastination and negligence being what it was.  But that is over now.  That is in the past.  In the present, Dave is positioning our posters for most prominence and eye-catching effect right in front of the orchid display.  And, at the other end of the store, opposite the cheese samples.  Things are as they should be.  The rend in the social fabric has healed.  I want for nothing, except a completed book and a sufficient level of caffeine.

Hello, Jackson waves, as I roll in the door of coffee land.  I smile wanly.  It is unclear why Jackson shares his name with a town in the Sierra foothills.  Now that I have finally reached Peet's my true inner needs have become more apparent.  I want to sit here and drink coffee while others do the same.  And that's all I want.  I don't want to talk to anyone.  I don't mind that others are talking around me.  In fact, that's good.  The sense of background human hubbub will be welcome.  The combination of me getting sugared and caffeinated and brooding at my lone table while the life of the community proceeds without me, that's what I need.  Unfortunately, I do need to say hello to Jackson, out of politeness if nothing else.  All the tables are full.  Jackson insists I sit with him.  I tell him okay, order my coffee and head for the men's room.

The latter is occupied.  The person who finally emerges is a female barista.  I should be cooler about this sort of thing, understanding the sub-40s unisex world.  But I am plus-60, and I don't.  The man ahead of me in the queue heads for the toilet.  The man behind me turns out to be the hairdresser who works next to the dry cleaner.  How's business, I ask.  He tells me it's like the economy, up and down.  Are you still working here and living in the Sacramento Valley, I ask?  He tells me that when I first met him, he was living in Half Moon Bay.  That was 18 years ago, he says.  This does not make sense, but while I pee, the truth manifests.  I temporarily moved to Menlo Park 27 years ago.  And God knows when I met Jackson.  Or if I met him.  I don't even know who he is or what he does.  He's just here, at Peet's.  And so am I.  And since my inherent sense of well-being is feeble and needs to be continually fanned like a dying campfire, I know that on this particular morning there are no big steps.  Only small ones.  And now, hearing my name called, I will move my latte and myself and my wheelchair and my personal history and my uncertain future to Jackson's table.