Keeper of the Bollards

Today I put together a pot of chili, one of my better efforts. I’d not tasted it before leaving the house, had only put it into the slow cooker to simmer. Upon arriving home I found the house full of the sweet aroma of cooking tomatoes and the various herbs and seasonings I’d put into the pot with the meat. This was the chili recipe that relied almost exclusively on meat and seasonings—had nothing in the way of beans. I recorded a video of my preparing the stuff, using my new digital camera. I fancied the thing would be called “Home-Style cooking, with the Grizzled Gourmet.” Or something along those lines. I spoke in down-homey terms, mentioning things like ‘coons and o’possums and so on, and of course imparting the details of how to prepare the chili. I may at some point edit the short project and see how it looks. More likely, I won’t.

After a meal of chili and rice I got in the rental Chevy to check on my brother’s house. He’d just left early in the morning for a ski trip out west. His house would be okay, but there was the matter of his golden abisynnian cat—a creature that was just at home outside as indoors. He would need to be fed, looked after from time to time—although he was a very independent cat. I fed the sleek and noble-looking creature, gave him some fresh water, and was on my way. During the drive home I put in a CD of Edith Piaf music, the melodic works washing over me with their burst of humanity, the wrenching phrasing of the lyrics—that twisted you this way and that—in a kaleidoscopic frenzy of emotions. This music always has that effect on me. I imagine that, even for those who don’t understand the words, the emotion must surely come through, the immensity of what is happening. If nothing else, the sheer madness of some of the melodies, the seeming confusion of melodic transitions that crash crazily against each other. Surely this must all mean something? It makes me giddy just thinking about it.

I imagine myself as Edith Piaf, tragic figure that she was. I don’t dwell on the personal aspects, but mainly the performer; I see myself outlined in a spotlight, every detail of the composition accounted for, the arrangement simplified a bit so that I can sing it. The accompanists are top musicians who not only can play the music, but can feel its emotion. We are all together in this thing. Percussion is a strong element of these pieces, is key to imparting the whole impact of what needs to be said. Not great crashing and thundering collisions of sound, but mostly small accents that emphasize the vocals. I would shake something in my hand, gesticulate wildly, wave my arms about, sway with the music, tap the stick or bell or jingly thing in time with the meter, or just accent one lone note or end of a phrase. I would be, for a brief time, for those who knew and who never knew her, Edith Piaf. It might make sense only to me, or to some dishevelled loners, fringe characters, who mutter to themselves while they forage for their existence, but that would be okay. As long as someone heard the lament, the cry, looked up from their solitary condition and recognized the beauty contained in the words, the melodies, the enormity of it all. It is not surprising that she couldn’t bear the weight of this art, this music that worked through her, couldn’t…I’m overcome, not able to go on. You get the idea. May peace finally be visited upon her, where she rests in Paris, among many other greats in the Pere Lachaise cemetery.

January 30, 2008

Howling wind today, reminiscent of daily weather conditions in Iceland. Perhaps a friendly meteorological reminder that I wouldn’t want to live there. Thanks. I ran errands, getting bills paid, sending off pieces of mail, all with the wind blowing everything around that wasn’t secured to the ground or something solid. The shopping centers looked like disaster areas, with boxes that would normally go into the big trash receptacles scattered around the parking lots. Trash cans were blown over as well. This was serious wind.

Later I drove over to the new Colosso-Box, my name for the store founded by the enterprising man from Arkansas. This one is huge, and I have the honor of it being not too far from where I actually live. I wandered the aisles, marveling at the gigantic selection. This store has a full supermarket, and people were shopping there, stocking up on rice and juices and fruits and so on. I don’t know how the store people pull it off; seems like an awful lot to keep track of. I lingered in front of the corn dogs, looking longingly at the bright boxes that showed appetizing representations of enormous corn dogs—much bigger than real life—on the outside. I noticed they had not one—but two—varieties. Imagine that: Two kinds of corn dogs. I’d gone to the store to buy some special videotapes for my camera, but came away with some salted peanuts and other miscellaneous items as well. It was a good outing, and—although I don’t like the idea behind the Colosso-Box chain of stores—I actually liked this one.

Earlier I’d visited the local candy store, now run by a young woman and her fiancé. The owner and her grown son had moved to the warm southwest, to soak up the sunshine and retirement, to enjoy the rest earned from a life of hard work. I’m not so sure the son will enjoy retirement; I think maybe he should keep busy with something. I asked the girl there about licorice pipes. I’d told my brother that this place had them. He is always going on about them, how he has recently found another source for them, how these pipes may not be as good as the ones he had before—but maybe they were better than those other ones he’d told me about. I suggested he try this little candy store, that they had tons of them and they were cheap.
“They have lots of licorice pipes there,” I said. “They cost about a quarter apiece.”
He looked worried, doubtful that these pipes would measure up, not wanting to risk it. He dismissed my mention of these inexpensive pipes as not worthy of further consideration. The matter was closed.
I asked the girl about the pipes. I may as well have been from Mars, a space alien asking her to bring me to her leader. She didn’t know what I was talking about. On this occasion there was a woman—a longtime customer—who knew exactly what I was asking about. She'd been buying a few sweets for her school-age children.
“Yes, she used to have them right over here,” she told the girl. “They were a big seller.”
I could have hugged her. I could have thrown my arms around her and held on tight, rocking back and forth, while her worried children looked on—my sobs muffled in her warm winter coat.
“Yes! Yes!” I would bawl, “Right over there! That’s where they were,” pointing to a vacant corner of the store, “Right there!”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “The only licorice we have is what came with the store when we took over.”
The former owner and her son were in the warm southwest, licorice pipes no longer a concern; angry crowds pushing into the store to get at the delicious snowballs and soft ice cream were a thing of the past. Finding help, stocking up for Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s Day, and so on would eventually fade from memory, replaced by other, more pleasant thoughts. The girl would do her best, trying to keep the candies that people wanted in the store. She would never have licorice pipes again.

February 1, 2008

Yesterday I drove into Washington for a job near the Old Executive Office building. I think that’s what it’s called. In any case, it’s very close to the White House. A few times during the day a motorcade would come through the intersection, many police motorcycles, then other vehicles, then two dark limousines rushing through the midday crowd. Here was a source of astonishment for me: Those barricades that appear to be permanent fixtures, solidly anchored into the ground, actually descended into their cylindrical bores to allow the official vehicles to pass. The whole streetscape changed when the wielders of power made their appearance. This I did not notice at first, saw only the long procession of speeding motorcycles, SUVs and of course the limousines snaking their way towards the White House. What I saw, when I returned my gaze to that same area, was a landscape made up mostly of very stout-looking bollards—a sure impediment to any vehicle trying to gain access to that area.
“How did they do that?” I wondered.
This question was quickly answered when I saw other, maybe less-official vehicles pass through. A man in a small guardhouse controlled the bollards—“The bollard-keeper.” I dubbed him. In any case, he made them go up and down. It looked easy.

Outside they were selling things on the sidewalk, this being Washington—a fairly important tourist destination. In addition to the usual tee-shirts and baseball caps and god-only-knows what, they had the likenesses of different presidential hopefuls on the shirts. One of them had a depiction of Hillary Clinton, with her sleeves rolled up, in the tradition of Rosie the Riveter—the can-do WWII hero who rallied the women to take jobs on assembly lines, shipyards, and the like. In the world of tee-shirt hawkers, Hillary Clinton—first lady of president Bill Clinton, had become Rosie the Riveter. I watched the different businesses get erected, take form, this being a source of professional interest for me—in view of my bread-selling activities. I had a kinship with the vendors down on the street—not very far from my second-floor tinted window. One thing I noticed immediately is that these people were in no particular hurry to get things underway. Morning was well along and one stand was still struggling to get things looking presentable. With large coats to keep the morning chill at bay, the lumbering vendors would hulk around, fastening this thing to that, getting tee-shirts unpacked, seeing if they could make the whole thing stand upright. One man stood by, eating a banana, while a woman hung a bundle of something from the splintered and worn framework, most of it appearing to have been made from scrap lumber. When she turned her back, the thing promptly fell to the ground. She gathered it up, tried anew, the man with the banana looking on in interest. He appeared to be part of the enterprise, but was taking a somewhat hands-off approach to the operation.

Inside the plush and luxury conference room, paid for by gazillions of dollars of litigation, the ice clinked softly in the little container, its lid keeping the cool cubes frosty cold. Every once in a while the staff would replenish the ice, make sure that everything was in place for a comfortable stay in the large room. They had cokes, always a source of satisfaction and reassurance for me. Although I don’t drink as many as I used to, I am always comforted when I know a coke is nearby.

At lunch I walked up the street, found a sandwich place that baked their own bread. I ordered a chili and a fries. They said that the fries were cut fresh there, and that seemed okay by me. With my order came a fresh-baked crusty ciabatta roll. It was rather large. Everyone got one; the staff there plopped it down on my tray as if were my god-given right to have a fresh-baked ciabatta. I bagged up my chili and fries and bread and headed back to the law firm to eat lunch and have a free coke. God that ciabatta was good. It was unbelievably good—a well-baked crust making up its toasty exterior, and airy, soft white bread making up the interior—or “crumb.” In the bakery, as I was paying for my food, I asked if I could photograph the rack of attractive breads. Sure, go ahead. I took out my camera, snapped a photo of the fresh offerings, and left the place. On the drive home, after dark, I would take out what remained of the ciabatta, would munch it as I snaked through the mostly clogged DC streets. Son-of-a bitch that was a good ciabatta. The chili was very good, too—large pieces of beef and beans making up the thick and well-seasoned offering. Although I’d recently made chili at home, I was glad I chose this from the menu: The sandwiches all looked huge, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to finish one during our half-hour break.

On the way back to the office building, I made a quick detour to look at the vendors’ stands up close. I still had my lunch bagged up, had just come from the bakery. A woman approached, she was wearing a woolen scarf, bundled up around her neck. She was halfway through an enormous blueberry muffin, asked through mouthfuls if she could help me. A halo of muffin crumbs surrounded her mouth, some of them falling off onto the sidewalk. I was embarrassed to have disturbed her mealtime, knowing that I was not going to buy anything—no Hillary tee shirts, no Obamas—not even three for nine dollars, which seemed like a pretty good price—for the white ones.
“Just looking,” I said—as so many customers have said to me.

At home I phoned my helper, my home-improvement friend who is so skilled at making precise cuts and fitting pieces of wood together. We spoke for a few minutes, having not talked recently. I said that it would probably be good to get together soon, see what could be done on the house. He agreed, said that he might be available soon to help out. I’ve done nothing on the house for the past several days; it remains vacant, cut off from the world.