Life is to be lived, not controlled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat. – Ralph Ellison
You probably know this, maybe you haven’t heard, but I have early-onset agoraphobia. Mostly, self-induced. Don’t think we should let the crazy guy out of the house much. Better for everybody.
My good buddy The Librarian called and asked for a little help. Hell, I can promote reading. No better way to travel. So, I drove downtown. Seventy-eight overcast in February in Florida, not so bad. A breeze. Felt good to be out of the house.
I left the library went straight to the barber shop and completely changed my look. Changed my look because I am the novelist who wrote the best-selling Lose The F*cking Costume and Race! When word got out Barker Ajax was in town… well, you can just imagine the excitement.
The Librarian – something of a hero in my mind – assumes I can read and wants me to talk other people into reading. And there’s this big race in town, The Library 5K, and I’ll be donating a copy of my book to anybody who runs looking like a cow or a ballerina.
Last year’s woman’s winner was pushing an actual baby stroller with an actual baby in it. Not coincidentally the same race I decided to retire. There are hills and cobblestones which apparently didn’t slow that mother down but about crippled my old wrinkly ass. Which gives me an idea for a children’s book. Next year I am giving out participant medals to all the spectators. But that’s another story.
They took my picture. Took my picture smiling, took my picture looking smart I hope, took my picture looking like I wished I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Some talk of a poster. And I almost passed out. At least it’s not a billboard.
I go to Muhammad & Sons, a black barber shop run by a Muslim who prays in the back room. Up front we listen to R&B crooners talking about getting down. Watch a lesbian get a fade.
Bennie has just begun to sculpt round my cowlick and the door bursts open.
Large lovely black woman red-faced starts in, seems there was a funeral and her husband got drunk and disrespected the deceased. Everybody else, too.
She’s a tall angry female. Almost in my face and I am sitting. She starts quietly talking to Bennie about to shave my neck but who mercifully stopped as her voice grew louder and louder. Try to pretend I’m not listening. Trying to pretend I am not staring at her crotch. My head goes whichever way Bennie pushes it. Think pink yoga pants like I thought you weren’t supposed to wear in public. I could probably close my eyes.
Deep breath, then she is off again. Finally got tired looking at that pile of cans in the garage. Not guessing there were Mountain Dew, exactly what I am thinking. She smiles, like she done something wrong and got away with it. $14! Fourteen dollars. That’s what she got back for the tin.
Twelve years and she is over it. Over it.
More to marriage than paying the bills. There’s love. Love. LOVE. Luuuuvvvvv. I love you like a-fat-kid-loves-cake kind of love. She is kicking his ass to the curb. Over it.
Apologetic nod. Spins and walks out. Door slams. Oh, shit, Bennie says. There goes my couch.
Beyonce is singing ‘Drunk In Love.’
Cassie doesn’t like my new look. I think she thinks I look like a guy who don’t read.
She told me there was already a story about a tortoise and a hare.
But she had to admit, not with another tortoise in a stroller.