Insulate, Insulate

During dishes I have the revelation that I not only need, but deserve, a window. Deserve a house of my own. One day before turning thirty-four, still living in an apartment, staring at off-white tile that returns a vague, crude reflection of my visage. If I owned this place I’d cut a hole right there and add a window. Always thought there was no point in buying a house before I married, but after too many years studying grout lines, it seems like time.

It also seems like time to crack that bottle of my favorite brandy I anticipated for my birthday. Why not indulge now and call in sick, get up late, and go out for good coffee and crepes. Forget dishes. Flip through CD’s. Realizing I’ve listened to them all too often, I remember my favorite from college. Begin searching through boxes in closet. Cannot find it but stumble upon videotapes. Some of them turn up to be Twin Peaks taped off TV. Begin watching. Develop a craving for cherry pie. No birthday cake this year, unless someone at work surprises me. Except, I’m not going to work.

Now I realize I’m hungry and dizzy from the brandy. Prepare a plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes. Recall that favorite CD from college disappearing sometime around senior year. Develop new theory about that bastard Phil who probably stole it. Becoming bored with Twin Peaks. Lynch is not compatible with alcohol.

Flip though a magazine. Become aroused by an ad featuring a female in a camisole/slip type thing, but worry that it might be an ad for a feminine hygiene product. That seems creepy to be aroused by. Closer inspection reveals sleep aid. Develop a craving for cigarettes (probably Twin Peaks/Sherilyn Fenn inspired). Put brandy in a flask for the trip. Obviously walking.

With cigarettes acquired, no desire to go back to apartment. Walk. Smoke. Walk. Smoke. Stumble upon bus station. Bus leaving for old college town in fifteen minutes. Sign?

Fifteen minutes into bus trip I determine this must be a midlife crisis and I need some kind of midwife. Someone to deliver me from this cycle of work and whatever else I do. I’ll find one. I know it. Feel it. Pretty girl on the bus. Blonde. Thin. Find out her name is Gina and a few other things, but fall asleep. Wake up half-sober. Gina’s gone.

Dawn. Bus stops. Breakfast. Funny waitress in the diner. Fifty-four. Long divorced. Daughter entering med-school. She wanted to be a doctor herself. I promise to come back, marry her, and send her through med-school.

Reach college town at noon. Order sandwich to go and eat it on the college green. Listen to a kid who is dressed like he’s homeless playing guitar. Edgy-sensitive cover or possibly original in the style of contemporary band I don’t precisely recognize. His friend keeps rhythm on the cover for a Weber grill.

Peruse bookstores. Art gallery. By early evening I stand in front of a foggy beer case window at the local liquor store. Weigh merits of good beer (Bass? Hacker Pschorr?), which I can clearly afford, vs. nostalgic effect of bargain brand. Opt for quality. Find small park. Sit on teeter-totter and consume. Hear music. Follow to house party, hanging back, still half-concealed by lilac bushes, watching kids slip inside. Some girl spots me, confuses me for shy freshmen, I assume, in the dim light and says, “come on.”

Four dollars later I’m holding a cup of Busch light in a basement. Kids bouncing quarters. I show them a clapping/rhythm/name-memorization game called “fuck me.” Kids resistant to change. Realize I left three of my Bass Ales out by the teeter-totter and contemplate going back for them. Debate Sweden’s health care system with a boy with green hair instead. Kid’s girlfriend wants burritos. I concur. Go out in search of perfect place and babble about all manner of philosophers en route.

There is a blonde at this all-night restaurant run by ex-migrant workers. Gina, I think. I beg forgiveness for falling asleep. She’s clueless. I tell her she is my midwife. She informs me that I am not a) pregnant, or b) female, and therefore not in need of the services of a midwife. Green-haired kid mocks me profusely. When Green-Hair goes to the bathroom I explain midwife to Girlfriend. I need help. I need delivery.

She takes tortilla chips and hot salsa from table. I sneak sixer of Dos Equis out of cooler from behind cash register. Take Green-Hair’s car. Park on ridge above college town. I can sense the girlfriend is sobering and not so impressed with my take on Schopenhauer any longer. Not so keen on ditching her boyfriend, either. I regret coming back to college town. Give us both a beer to insulate against the regret and the chill I notice with the edges of sobriety. Sun is coming up soon. Burned last cigarette. Forgot to call in sick to work. So this is midlife? Insulate, insulate.