SOMETIMES YA JUST NEED TO LIGHTEN UP

WELL!   OF COURSE, Maria and me decide to go swimming today.

So we get in the pool at 2:00 sharp, and about 15 minutes into the swim, the sky is growing darker and darker and we notice LIGHTNING in the distance! (There are big glass doors all around this huge pool, and 2 of them are OPEN!)

So I yell: 'HEY, LIFE-GUARD!!!  LIFE-GUARD!!!   SHOULD THOSE DOORS BE OPEN? IT'S STARTING TO LIGHTNING OUTSIDE!"   And this punk-kid life-guard, maybe 19 or 20 years old, smirks at me and goes: "Lightning?"   Like he's brain-dead. 

And I go: "YEAH, LIGHTNING!  ISN'T THIS DANGEROUS?"

He looks like Curious George, only he's not curious enough I guess.  And he goes, again: "You saw lightning?"

Me: "Yeah!" 

And then all the sudden the whole sky goes BLACK and MORE LIGHTNING starts flashing and all these whistles start going off and on the loudspeaker, some guy SCREAMING (barely deciperable, like the noise of a subway conductor):  'EVERYONE GET OUT OF THE POOL GET OUT THE POOL - NOW -  GET OUT OF THE POOL."
So we all high-tail it for the locker room, where we sit around for a little while throughout the storm and as soon as it let up a little, me and Maria got the hell out of there.  We can take just so much of this fuckin' crowd. 

There was flooding all over the roads coming home, but we pretty much missed all the thunder and lightning.   We managed to have a few laughs.

It was good to get a little swim-on and to see Maria.   I needed it, STORM STORY-drama and all.

When I got home, Chris had piled up chairs by the front door because he said Herman had been losing his mind and trying to claw his way out of the apartment.  Which never makes any sense to me, unless he perhaps thinks he's gonna find me out there somewhere, battling the inclement environment and needing his assistance.     

When I got in and sat down, Herman stood in front of me barking for 2 solid minutes (scolding me), and then laid his head in my lap for another half hour.

And we're all still alive. 

Good day, good day.

The End.

Rock Surgeon

Hi there, Surgeon -

Well look at you.

45 and waddaya do?

You play GOD and you do it well.

Gettin' us civilians thru living Hell.

Well hey there, Surgeon -

Yer mighty young

Yer pops must be proud to have

Such a son.

Well hey there - wow.

Hey there, now -

Hey there,

Hey, hey, hey.

And hey now, Surgeon -

How must you feel?

Does playing GOD ever get surreal?

Well, either way I thank you, Surgeon.

You and your hands and your knives.

Thank you, Surgeon-bubby.

For saving -

Yes, saving

Our

Lives.

Chapter 32

Chapter  32

It is around 11:00 a.m. on a Monday in February, 1996 (and although I am not certain, I believe it may have been the 12^th) that I first meet my future husband face to face.  Like the rest of the band members (with the exception of the newly unemployed) Chris works a day job, but he happens to have Mondays off.   It’s a surprisingly warm day for February: No jacket required.

I arrive at his address wearing a favorite thread-bare, fawn-colored sweatshirt over grey leggings and suede fringed moccasin boots.  Trademark bandana keeps the hair back, off my forehead.  My dogs are along for moral support, but also because when I’m not gigging or rehearsing I bring ‘em almost everywhere with me, anyhow.   They’re wearing their bandana’s, too.

            Chris lives on the 3^rd floor in a three-story apartment building in Richmond Hill.  With Girlie and Lula flanking me, I ring the bell.  First, a static burst over the intercom and in a few short moments, Chris comes down and stands before us.

            Everyone who meets Chris comments about his height.  He is, after all, 6’ 6”.  But despite the fact that tall men have always appealed to me, when I meet Chris I barely notice his height. 

When he appears at the lobby door: Grayish-blue eyes, thick black eyebrows and a beard to match.  A quick, courteous nod.  His gaze is open, friendly and frankly admiring, as I imagine my own must be.  He looks at me in such a way that it’s like we’re already in the know, in some kind of private club.  Odd, but then its not so odd, either.

            And then, there’s the dogs.  These two gals are notoriously picky and as soon as Chris opens the front door, he innately offers the backs of his hands for them to scent.  They sniff heartily before they both lift their faces up at him:  Two crazy grins, tails wagging vigorously in unison.  Pant, pant, pant.

Me: “Hey.”

Chris: “How’s it goin’.”

A quick, shy-but-firm handshake between us.  That’s one large, warm, sturdy hand, alright.  The dogs are bombarding him now, pushing each other out of the way for petting time with this new, charming stranger.

Me: “You’re good with dogs.”

Chris: “Oh, sure.” He is gently patting their heads, scratching their ears.

Me: “You have dogs?”

Chris: “Ahh…no.”

Me: “Then you’ve HAD dogs.”

Chris: “Ahh…no.”

Me: “Oh.  Well, they sure like you.”

Chris: “Sure, why not?  What’d I ever do to them?” 

This makes me giggle: “That’s true.”

A quiet moment as the dog-petting-fest continues.

Me: “So, here’s the tape.”

Chris (taking the tape): “Okay, great.” 

For some reason, I say:  “So this should all work out.”

Chris: “Sure, why not?”

Sure, sure, sure…why not.  Hmmm.  We gaze at one another for a peculiar moment, and it’s as if I’m seeing myself somehow: I can see myself the way he’s sees me.  It’s an imperfect, untarnished, pure examination.  Not decipherable, this.  Not known to me ever before.  I almost have to shake it off, this heady sensation. 

Me: “Ok - so I’ll see ya at rehearsal, then.   I’ll call to confirm the time.”

Chris: “Okay, great.”  He gives another of those nods:  “Bye, then.”

Me: “Ok, ‘bye, Chris.”  To the dogs: “C’mon, girls, in the car.”

Girlie and Lula linger, looking behind them at Chris (are you coming, too?).  They’re visibly disappointed to be leaving so soon. 

As we pile into my old white Chevy sedan, I look back also. Chris is watching us with a bemused little smile on his face.  He gives me a brief, comical half- salute.  

My breath feels short, a lump in my throat. 

I can hardly wait to see him again.

* * * * * *