Better Than Starbucks!

Another Trip

 

            I stood just inside the cupboard, door hanging open. Paper towels, plates and toilet tissue were on the left side and cans, bread, coffee, chips, crackers, and peanut butter were on the right. I looked back and forth, like watching a tennis match. Damn it. What in the hell did I come here for? This is happening a lot lately. Do I have Alzheimer’s? Dementia? I’m not too stressed to juggle a few simple tasks. Maybe I’ve had a mini stroke like all those dad had before his big one. The one that left him paralyzed, thinking Bush was still president. I’ll bet most folks wish he were now. “You know, them son of a bitches lied to us about Viet Nam. All of them,” he’d told me in a recent call. “Yes,” I said. “I imagine they all do.” I want to tell him to stop watching the damned television. Ain’t nothing on. Get Netflix and watch some movies or go outside. Staying in the house all day can’t be good for you.  Should I go to the doctor and get a check-up for this forgetful stage? They may think I’m crazy. I walked in the restroom the other day wondering why I was there. I didn’t have to go. It took a minute. I just went for a tissue to wipe the food smudge off my glasses. Oh yeah. I finally remember. I came in here for a bag. These damned left over bags from the grocery store are good for the smaller trash cans.

 

            I closed the door and walked to the restroom to replace the bag, since tomorrow the city picks up trash, and I want to make sure it’s all gathered and put in the large container, rolled to the street. My dog Frost, named for Robert, but mainly for his white and black coat, bumped at my feet with his squeaky toy. “Not now, Frost. I’ve got to get the trash out.” As if the dog could understand what I’m doing or why.

 

            “Dad, do you have five dollars?” my son asked.

 

            “No, I think I have two or three. Why?”

 

            “I want pizza at school tomorrow.” I spent two hundred dollars at the damned grocery store and there’s nothing to eat. That’s like having two hundred channels and nothing to watch on tv. Who cares about them damned Kardashians, soap stars, reality shows. These tv people are all going to hell. Sartre’s hell, where the lack of a mirror will keep them scrambling to find one.

 

            “Well, a slice of pizza shouldn’t cost five dollars. You tell them I said that.”

 

            I took the small trash bag, put it in the big bag, pressed it down and tied it tight, carried it outside, and rolled the trash to the street.

 

“Hey,” my neighbor yells. “How are ya’ll doing?”

 

            “We’re all good,” I said. Not really, but you don’t want to hear about my issues. It’s like I’m a damned car that goes and stops, goes and stops. I live in a pinball machine where life flips me from one stopper to the next. At some point, I won’t notice it anymore. I guess it won’t matter to me then if I don’t notice it, right? “Everything good with you all?”

 

          He nodded, waived, and grabbed the newspaper, high-stepping back to the door. I know nothing about these people. They could be mafia or involved in a child porn ring for all I know. They damned sure put on a good disguise. Retired military, so they said, from California or some-damned-place where people smoke pot and have affairs. I wish they’d get some new mulch and paint them damned faded shutters. I know if they retired from the military, they can afford it. What was I going to do next? I know I rolled the trash can to the street. Hell, I meant to get the mail. I guess I’ll have to make another trip.