2004-11-03 - 11:56 a.m.

Current Tunes: Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Shake the Sheets

There's little specs of grounds in my cup of coffee. I thought I'd brewed a perfect pot, but dammit there's 10 or so little specs floating in a circle in my french roast.

But we've all got bigger fish to fry right? I mean it looks like we'll be bushwacked for another 4 years. Not that I can complain, after all I didn't vote. And to stymie the rush of "Why nots?!?" and "You Un-American bastard!!!" I'll explain briefly why I didn't vote.

I'm not educated enough on the issues. I don't know enough about either candidate, much less the numerous senators, school board reps, propositions, etc... to make an educated decision. And rather than cast my vote into the void, hoping it lands on the right side, I opted to hang onto it till I'm good and ready to choose.

But don't get me wrong, this Bush guy is a real idiot. The world would be a better place if a woman was president.

So I'm sliding through my work day wrapped comfortably in the cozy blanket that is Tylenol PM. I've had a little bit of a head cold lately, and I'm all out of the non-drowsy stuff, so I figured what the hell. It's not like I need more than 15% of my brain for work anyways.

Yesterday I kind of overdid it. 4 tablets instead of two. I spent the majority of the day floating above my cube, watching myself work. I don't think anyone said a single word to me, which further enhanced my feelings of detachment and ethereal existance. Even the automated sliding doors leading into and out of the building refused to recognize my physical body. I literally walked face first into them. Normally they slide open when you're a good 5 paces away so you don't even have to slow your step... and they worked fine for the person ahead of me. But much to my chagrin, I apparently wasn't a whole person yesterday, and thus the doors remained shut. It wasn't until I made physical contact with them, assuring them that yes I was real, that they chose to open and admit me outside.

Ahhhh outside. These overcast fall days. I know I've devoted countless entries to these kind of days...I just can't help it.

So here we are. Day 18 of my month of sobriety. Things have become clearer, like the slight turning of a lens towards the desired level of focus. It's still blurry, but faces and bodies are beginning to take on a clearer shape. Things are beginning to make sense and paths that were just blobs of color are slowly appearing out of the mist. Do they lead in the right direction?

I went home for a Wilco concert. Spent a lovely Saturday night in downtown Chicago. Saw a beautiful concert with a wonderful friend. Then spent all of Sunday at home with my family. I needed that.

The keys came out of the ignition, the carslid to a rest in the driveway. The garge door code had changed, but the doorbell was the same. The cracks in the sidewalk had begun to condense as the weather got colder, just like the scrapes and scars on my knees have slowly healed.

The wooden door opened, then the glass door. There was my mother the same way I remembered her. She's getting older every year, but my brain refuses to process the wrinkles, the gray hairs. I don't hear the aging in the voice, I don't notice the slowed walk. I'm not a foot and a half taller than her. I still look up to her for acceptance and positive reinforcement.

My father rounds the corner, more life in him then I recall. Being out of a job has done wonders for him. The light in his eyes has returned, the spring in his step makes me laugh. He throws a fake punch at me, and we're wrestling again like its 15 years ago. He pins a knuckle behind my back and I'm laughing through the pain. The old man's still got it. Just in time my mom is shouting to knock it off lest we knock over a potpourri basket that's occupied the same spot on the table for almost a decade now. I don't think a bulldozer could knock that basket over.

But we relinquish the headlocks anyway. The house is my mother as my mother is the house. She has made it the most warm and loving place I know, even if her OCD is a tiny bit out of control, what with the incessant cleaning...but then again, that's the job shes created for herself. My father engrossed himself in his job, determined to make enough money so that my brothers and I could go to college and have the things he never had. In turn my mother dedicated the same amount of time to creating a household that was warm and inviting, something she never had.

How will I make things even better for my kids? I don't know.

My brother joins in on the fake fighting, a few minutes to late to really throw down, but we play wrestle anyways. It's this contact, this fake fighting that lets us show our love for one another. We're tough guys, sports fans, meat-eaters. We can hug but only if we thump each other on the back or try and turn the hug into a arm lock take down. But that's our hug. When my arm is playfully thumped by my brother, I know it means "I've missed you. I'm so happy you're home. IT's like the good ole days."

I love my family.

Most of the day is spent playing playstation with my brother, watching football with my dad, and just chatting with my mom as she cleans up the kitchen.

It's nothing special and yet its more special than any concert I could be at or date I could be on this fine Sunday afternoon.

We go to the good ole Holiday Inn for Sunday brunch. My first job when I was 15 was as a bus boy at this very Holiday Inn. Getting up on Sunday mornings at 5am to be there and set up for the ginormous Sunday brunches the hotel was famous for. I befriended the cooks and the managers, and they'd slip me plates of scrambled eggs and omelettes to get me through the tough mornings. The restaurant would fill up for hours on end and I'd run from wall to wall clearing plates and filling water glasses.

The pay was pitifully small. Enough for a few Blockbuster rentals here and there...but it was a paycheck. My own money.

So we sit down near the wall of glass windows. Nobody is left that I recognize. The single mothers who waited tables have moved on, hopefully marrying Prince Charming the second. The college kids who worked as room servers or hostesses now have families of their own...

And there's that busboy with the lip ring. He's got messy hair, and he forces a smile as he fills my water glass. He can't be more than 16. I instinctively feel my ears. There's the holes that used to house earrings. I've taken the final two out, a last testament to my days of rebellion and youth. I think he sees me feeling the holes. Maybe he smiles in understanding. Maybe he sees his future laid out in front of him. Or maybe he smiles out of habit. Either way I offer a small prayer out into the void, wishing him happy teenage years. I don't even know him, but I know him better than he thinks.

The bill comes and I snatch it from my mom's hands. This is my responsibility now. My parents have raised me perfectly. They've done everything right. So I pay the bill and we drive home. The sun begins setting and I know I need to get on the road. I milk as much time from the day as I can. Waiting till the sun has completely set before I begin the rouds of goodbyes that will last another 15 minutes.

The hugs are warm. This time there aren't any jabs or headlocks. And that always makes me sad. Those hugs say the words we don't. From my brother they say, "I love you man. I miss not being able to toss the baseball around. I miss not being able to cuss quitely upstairs hoping mom and dad don't hear." My mom's hug says, "You're doing well for yourself. MY baby boy. My first born. You need to visit more often." And my dad's hugs say simply, "I'm proud."

And that's all I need anymore.

And yes I'm crying at work, in my cube.

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