Wine

And so by the fourth night, things British and distant and escapist having seeped sufficiently out of my system, the insomnia and emotional turbulence that had preceded my trip, returned. My psyche punched in for the grief shift. And things were as they were. And how did I expect things to be? Perhaps a little more peaceful and untroubled and less burdened by anxiety, as they had been for my last cold and pleasant days in London. Which is, of course, ridiculous, and not even desirable. This is where I live, on Roble Ave., Menlo Park, and here and only here can life's battles be fought and its deeper knowledge found. Or so goes the conventional wisdom. Which is extremely boring, by the way.

What disturbs my sleep? If I knew, it wouldn't be disturbed, would it? But there I was, staring into the shadows cast by the nightlight on my ceiling, listening to the 5:30 AM sounds of Caltrain and mentally going over its weekday rush-hour schedule. Which insured about 20 minutes of silence. Then at 5:55 AM the start of a train crescendo, whistles blowing and bells clanging and engines rumbling north and south with mounting frequency. And with commuting reaching its fever pitch around 6:30 AM and the mind sadly stuck in its own track, what was there to do but sadly swing my legs over the bed, fling the torso up and down a few times until it clicked into the sitting position, and admit defeat? I considered the day ahead, vacant and needing to be filled. And not enough sleep.

I managed to read a book on the flight home, signaling the return of my powers of concentration. A false signal, it seems, for the novel I had intended to read for the Israeli book club, meeting tonight, has proven too much. Oddly, it has also proven enjoyable. But I'm back to distracted, mental turbulent mode, and here we are.

We. I think of Marlou all the time. In one form or another. Surely we would have found a way to discuss the current health-care debacle. Or would we? Where would we be now in counseling? Working on the ability to handle opposing views? Dialogue improvement? And maybe because I have so recently traveled and recall the idyllic 10 days we spent in a Tuscan country hotel, the other thing comes back to me. How frightened Marlou was. How her fear was my constant concern. And my own fear...well, maybe I'm catching up. Maybe it's my turn.

All the books I haven't read. The languages I haven't learned. The music I can't read. It seems too late to worry about any of these things. But what do I know? Life is a lottery ticket, and you simply wait until your number is called. Things to do. Finish writing my own book, for example. And some, even all, of this may get done. Or not. And I'm not sure I will feel better one way or the other. Good thing there's lunch.

Judy in the alto section of the Menlo Park Chorus has been talking about having lunch for the longest time. Months. So last night at rehearsal's end, I said tomorrow. She said maybe. I said definitely. And so at 12:30 there she was with her husband, and up ahead there was Ruth, another alto, and soon we were sitting upstairs in Draeger's supermarket staring at bowls of soup.

We were talking about Menlo Park's new civic theatre, debating the merits of its acoustics, and wondering about its future. I got myself coupled into the Civic Theater Train just as the thing was leaving the station, and there's no letting go. The place isn't being properly managed. I am convinced of this, and the fact endlessly annoys me. Something must be done. But I'm not going to do it. Things are on hold for me, grief being the only constant. I can't commit, as they say, to any civic projects. Meetings. Letters. Follow-through. Don't look at me for any of this. Still, I can't resist holding forth. I know what needs to be done. I just can't do it. I can't even get a night's sleep. It seems a major achievement that I have finished my soup.

Still, emerging into the grey California winter skies, I feel at least twice as good as I did before lunch. Nothing like a stirring civic issue or two to get the blood going. Yes, I also feel the utter ineffectiveness of my lunch hour chitchat, whither the community theater and what shall we do? Let's do nothing. Straight out of Chekhov. So I'm heading straight for Peet's. I order my usual latte, and damned if the barista doesn't wave me away. It's on us, he says. What have I done to deserve this, I say. But only to myself. I thank the guy, consume the coffee and consider next steps. What to do in this grey and empty day, while I do not like being alone with myself or feeling the last weeks of my wife, her dying agony still hovering about the apartment?

Will Something extravagant is building within me. It happened during lunch. Joe, Judy's husband, is a wine guy. Actually, and no pun intended, this Joe works for Trader Joe's. He has told me about the wine bargains, how there is really nothing like them. I listen attentively. This Joe seems much more committed to wine than to the chain of stores. I'm trying to remember his recommendations. Because, what the hell, time waits for no man, and no wine shall go undrunk. Which makes absolutely no sense, except that I am clinging to my last human interaction and its fruits. Which happen to be fermented ones. So, yes, feeling at loose ends, if that is the word, I am headed for Trader Joe's. In fact, I have even mapped out a mission. Two bottles of each of the three recommendations.

The store is empty. Joe the wine guy says Trader Joe's is expanding too quickly. Fine with me. I am trying to remember if it's Blackstone or Bogle I am supposed to buy in the Merlot aisle, and which year? Hi. Strangest thing. One of the trustees of the civic theatre wanders out of the Rioja aisle and says hello. I want to say olé. Instead, we chat about, what else, the theater and its management. It occurs to me that I know this guy. I know what to do. He knows whom to talk to. If I just had two non-depressed brain cells to rub together, a sort of plan would emerge, and both of us would have a little chat with the city manager. And we would get something done. It's all too much.

Certainly, it's too much wine. I bounce home with six bottles. One of the clerks almost talked me into buying a case of the French wine Joe recommended. But half a case will do. After all, there are bound to be parties. There are bound to be dinners, at the very least. People to see and talk to and spend time with and drink wine with. It isn't over. Maybe it isn't even ending. But you do have to be careful, for there is traffic and bottles of wine are clinking together in the bag on my lap, and it's the glasses you want to clink. And they're at home.