It was Friday, after a work week shortened by a long weekend. The Labor Day weekend had been a bust. They say you can never go home again. They’re right, and they don’t just mean the place you grew up.
My wife and I decided to throw some chicken thighs on the grill, a little barbecue sauce, a splash of Tabasco. Add some sliced, grilled zucchini with a touch of olive oil and a little salt and pepper and the weekend would be welcomed in with a touch of smoky, glowing warmth.
I decided to stop and get a bottle of bourbon. Something good. Something we haven’t tried. I found “Puncher’s Chance,” from Bardstown Kentucky. You know what they say, if it isn’t from Kentucky, it’s just whiskey. Unless it is from Scotland, Canada or Japan in which case it’s just whisky. Funny the things you learn. It came in a bottle that looked medieval, it was dark and rounded, mystical, it spoke to the pirate in me. I thought it was worth a try. It was.
The woman at the register said something about enjoying the evening, I assured her I would. She was probably a little older than me, I’m 63. Her hair hung down to her shoulders, it was white, wavy, and a little unruly, it contrasted with the pitch black of her sweater and pants. Her bright red lipstick made her pale complexion look white and waxy. Her left hand had a small brace, the type used for repetitive stress disorders. It was black, too, giving it the appearance of a fashion accessory.
It made me think about getting a haircut. My hair is long, almost down to my shoulders. It started as my Covid haircut, but I thought it looked fantastic. More likely, though, I look as if I’d already gone through my second childhood and was approaching the end of my second adolescence. Instantly, I was a little embarrassed, my mind ran with deep misgivings, I imagined, I hope it was just my imagination, people pointing, laughing at my appearance, I was wounded. Maybe I should act my age. You can’t go back, no matter how hard you try.
I looked at her face, through the plexiglas screen that protected us both from germs, and she smiled with a genuine warmth. She looked as if she felt comfortable with who she was, where she was. It gave her a power that I recognized but could never duplicate. She seemed to be at peace with life, it takes a skill I never had.
“It’s Friday, at least for me. I’m not sure about you, though.” I said. Retail is an odd beast, and liquor stores are a whole separate reality. I worked in a liquor store for several years, so I understand the demands.
“It’s Friday for me, too.” She said. “I have tomorrow off. Sometimes I watch football all day on Saturday. I love football.” She added.
“I haven’t watched a game in years.” I said, it had been a long time, and I didn’t miss it, at all. Too much greed, too many million-dollar contracts, too many young lives wasted chasing elusive NFL contracts. Just too much, too many commercials, too many announcers, it has just gone too far, the spectacle of wretched excess pregame show starts at 10:30 and lasts all day.
“I kind of miss it.” I lied.
It is ritual, in Central Ohio, to praise, or curse the football teams that sprout, across practice fields at high school and colleges in mid August and start to blossom in front of cheering crowds in September and come to full bloom with crazed dreams of championships in October, if they’re lucky. I can’t do it anymore.
It left her in an awkward conversational deficit.
“I grew up with four brothers. We played football all the time. I liked playing it more than watching it. We had so much fun.” Her smile faded into the past. She looked past me, past the Malibu rum display, The Oxo Vodka, past the neatly arranged limes, the orderly rows of bags of pistachios, and two litter bottles of Coca Cola. She looked at a past that she remembered, or thought she remembered.
“I might just sleep in.” She said, coming back to the moment. Somehow, she had changed, in that small trip she had lost something, or gained something, or both. She was still smiling, but it didn’t seem as warm. I wasn’t sure if I should feel guilty or giving.
“Enjoy the games.” I said, walking out. I didn’t know what to say. It had been a long week, but it’s always the minutes that seem the longest. Somehow, they can last forever.
The past is a Bermuda Triangle, once you get there you never get out, not completely. It isn’t the place we thought it would be. We need to look back, the ability to learn from the past is a vital piece of our survival gear. Memories are an important part of life, no matter how true they are, or aren’t. Just don’t give them too much importance.
[1] I didn’t, I used the reel mower, it was more work, but worth it.
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