... ..a wild man like that ....February 8, 2004   I pull my silver sport sedan into the cracking driveway of the Alhambra.  I activate the remote-controlled garage door and slide past it into the Batcave.  I sing the nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-Batman song and close the garage door behind me.  I suspect it is the oldest automatic garage door in existence, the original invented by Eli Garagedoor.  I beep-lock the Batmobile. The garage opens onto a front porch made from ornate Italian tile and wrought-iron.  But first I must pass the Hibiscus of Doom, a witchy plant that guards the front door.  El Gnomo, the magical hand-painted yard gnome, looks up from the book he's reading and instructs the hibiscus to let me pass.  I doff an imaginary cap and unlock my front door.  I am not much on caps, but I enjoy a good doff. I turn on a lamp having been raised from an early age to abhor overhead lighting except in the kitchen and bathroom.  My house plants remain on their hunger strike.  In my bedroom I empty my pockets and remove my watch.  I put them in a dish meant for olives, gerkins, and such.  I am a wild man like that. I take a leak and, as I walk back through my bedroom, I glance at the unmade bed.  For the longest time after my exile, I made the bed.  Eventually, I tired of hearing how I had made my bed and, thus, must lie in it.  My refusal to make the bed is a lame attempt to circumvent the law.  I do not fool myself well anymore and soon I will start making it again. There is still a bit of light left.  I turn on the computer and pour a Limonato over ice in my favorite glass, the one with a male cardinal painted on it.  The fizz dies as the computer comes to life.  I gaze across my yard into the park and spot the few remaining Resolution People huffing and puffing their way to failure.  They'll be gone by the Ides of March, April Fool's Day at the latest.  It always happens that way. I step out back to pour seed into a bird feeder.  I wave at my lovely neighbors, Gerald and Patti.  I found out this year she spells her name with an i instead of a y.  It was on the tag stuck to the tin of Christmas pralines they gave me.  My neighbors frequently give me things, wonderful things, like the roses they grow and the fresh fish they catch.  Every time Gerald clips a rose for me, he asks whether I have a vase for a single, long-stem rose.  I tell him I do because I do. No email.  A bowl of Life cereal.  Some reading, some television.  And then to bed in one I did not make.  previous..|..current..|..archives..|..1st quarter index..|..next

©  2004 by the beastmaster