The Day After

There exists a power that only arises the day after a house party. It brings to bear all of the oddities of life that movies are made of. Perhaps it emerges from an abandonment of constructive activities in favor of lethargy. Maybe it only comes to me because I've had the requisite amount of strong drink the night before so that my brain becomes aligned with the Universe for a day. Best guess is that it's both of these and then a little more of God's razzle dazzle.

I woke up, grabbed some breakfast, and flipped on the television. I didn't even have to change the channel. It was the last 20 minutes of the movie Three Kings. George Clooney, Mark Wahlberg, and Ice Cube trying to hustle some Iraqis over the border toward the end of the 1991 Gulf War. I was glued.

I didn't do a whole lot for most of the day. Picked up beer bottles, washed some party platters, the usual day-after fare. That act by itself always brings a sort of peace that can't be had anywhere else.

I watched a 13-minute Wes Anderson short film in preparation for his new movie, something I had been alerted to by a previously unknown party guest who happened to bring as his wife a girl who I had known 11 years prior while working at a summer camp. The film was a strange attempt at romance by the usually benign Anderson. It included Natalie Portman. This is a good moment. Any day.

Some time later, I noticed I'd received a call from Elliot, one of the last guests to leave the night before. My phone was still muted from the night, as well. I think it was last night I dreamed that an Asian man was threatening to kill me and pulled out a green water pistol. Concerned that he might have a real gun in his pocket, I shot him in the stomach and then in the head as he fell forward. I've never been that good of a shot in my dreams. It was a little surprising. Probably more surprising than the idea that I had shot an obviously confused individual who wasn't going to bring harm to me.

Elliot left a message about attending the Jazzfest, or some other festival. I looked to see what's going on in Boston today and noticed it's also the annual "What the Fluff?" festival in honor of the invention of marshmallow fluff in Somerville. I considered going for a bit. After some discussion on the call-back with Elliot, we decided to lay low here and finish off some beers that are still lingering in the fridge. I shaved, trimmed my nose hairs, and set off for the Hi-Lo Foods to pick up some peanut butter, jelly, bread, and paper towels. Turns out, people who don't speak English as a first language may or may not be familiar with sandwich bread. Either way, no sandwich bread, no bulk paper towels. This means I have to call Elliot and tell him I'm headed up on the 39 bus to that old standby, Stop & Shop.

I buy the stuff. Fine. I also grab a couple of bottles of low sodium V8 because it has 860mg of Potassium per glass. I need the Potassium. Then, I sit to wait for the bus.

An old African-American man with strange eyes and a number of bags wanders across the street and asks me how long I've been waiting. I told him I just got there, but I've been sitting because I have bad knees. He then launched us into a marvelous conversation about appreciating life. I told him about some of the things I've experienced and he told me I was unusual for a young white man. We were both wearing plain white t-shirts and carrying on, him the 81-year-old leaning against the post and me the 28-year-old sitting on the curb, both with a number of bags. I always wind up with a lot of bags when I take the bus.

I discovered that John is a veteran of World War II who fell in love with and almost married a German woman while overseas. Prior to that, he hated white people. He still has a picture of her next to a picture of his mother on his nightstand. He was raised by women without a father in the picture. He told me he once saw a blind man get on the bus with his dog. He watched intently because "There's nothing new under the sun, you just ain't seen it yet." He saw the dog stand up one block before they were to get off, as if to say "This is our stop." That made him cry.

When the bus finally came about 20 minutes later, John hopped on and tried to get to the back but was temporarily thwarted by the dense population of standees in his way. He and his bags, one of which looked like a garbage bag full of cans, were left standing for a half mile. He took that opportunity to strike up a conversation with a 61-year-old white woman who had been placing her hand on his for a bit by the time the sea of standing riders finally parted for him.

Around that same time, I saw a seat open near the front, which is polite to leave open for the aged and decrepit. With my bags and my knees as they are, I felt no burden on my soul as I took full advantage of the opening. At some point, I glanced over and saw that the man next to me was carrying a composition book that was simply titled "CANADA" in sharpie on its cover. My imagination ran for a moment as to what sort of a man this was. Then my stop came and the bulk of the adventure was over. I'm not making guesses right now as to what will happen tonight. It has faded from day to twilight as I have sat here on my porch writing and looking out over my kingdom. I am prepared for anything, but would always prefer...to be surprised.