Ennui
March 18, 2009
At middle age you’d think I’d have a favorite flavor of coffee, at least an understanding of how I like my coffee – sweet, black, brown and bland. Same goes for food, geographic locations, books, movies, weather. I am only certain of two things: I like people who don’t talk too much and clothes that are roomy.
It is sleeting ice pellets at the moment, on March 14th, after the first two warm days since October. I can say that I prefer yesterday’s sun but basically, today’s sleet is no upset to my schedule or mood.
I guess I’m trying to say that I don’t care that much. I would like to find a cup of coffee that made me close my eyes in ecstasy at first sip, a movie or book that I could meld myself to, leaving me almost breathless with enjoyment, enough to watch or read again and again, or buy as a gift for a friend.
My dog, at the window, feels more discouraged than I do. The sleeting white pellets are flying against the window like bee-bee’s, and he knows that today isn’t going to be a walk in the park.
Nice afternoon to read a book and make a nice cup of coffee. The cup of coffee should taste better than it does, the book, with glowing reviews, should entertain more than it does, the warmth of the apartment, the full refrigerator, the silence of a turned-off cell phone should supply hours of luxurious contentment. Today and every day without a terminal illness or a daughter on crack is a living heaven. I am floating on clouds with a harp, but I can’t play it.
Before you e-mail me and suggest psychotherapy, The Tao, more pills or volunteer work, let me add that I’ve tried it all twice. The outcome of these treatments left a residue of shame that I am trying to wipe away with an acknowledgement. This is the way it is.
It’s genetic. My parents and grand-parents and great grand-parents lived their lives struggling to feel something, and the best they could do was stay alive. The best I can do is become mildly amused, mildly interested, mildly curious, mildly concerned, mildly sad.
There are pockets of time when I perk up a little and decide to go outside and make something happen. Anything. Do the laundry, make a new friend, get a job, go to a concert. Sometimes during these temporary peppy periods I make big plans and big connections that lead to big red circles around dates on my calendar. It can be something as simple as a pot-luck dinner at Bert’s house, or tickets to the Opera. Red circles with asterisks; a friends abortion, removal of an ingrown toenail, flight to Baltimore. Nine times out of ten, I opt out of the red circle plans, having learned that to not do is as interesting as doing and a lot cheaper.
And there is the positive spin: I enjoy not doing because not doing is actually doing something more than doing something. To do what we call nothing and enjoy it takes a special sensitivity to the remote. For example, looking out the window, down at the street, and observing the way the street sign looks from a discordant angle. Considering that angle geometrically and the impossibility of rendering a precise sketch of the angle. Staying attune to the objective acknowledgment of your incapacity to draw a straight line. Walking away from the window with an additional sense of humiliation and ennui. Going into the kitchen for a cup of any flavor of coffee, brewed any which way, milk or no, sugar or no, cold, warm, hot.
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Dumb- Ster
The cop looked in the dumpster and noticed a picture of his wife. He had just received a complaint from the Olympic Sports store that someone had dumped bags of garbage in their dumpster. That someone was me. I’d cleaned out a few drawers of hometown memories that morning, – high school notebooks, graduation pictures, diplomas, clippings and headed into what I thought was a free-for-all dumpster tucked behind a strip mall. After I threw the bags into the dumpster I took a walk with the dog and when I returned to my car I was met by the policeman and the assistant manager of the Olympic Sports store.
I don’t remember my first words, but they conveyed innocence of my wrong-doing.
“I’m in Bridport and missed dump day! I thought these dumpsters were for the public. I live in Providence now, and, well, the dumpsters are there for everybody.”
“Not in Vermont” said the cop.
“I’m sorry” I said.
“There’s a law about that here and I thought there was a law against it in most states.”
“Not Rhode Island” I lied.,
“The fine for dumping is quite high” said the policeman. “ I suggest you take your garbage out. By the way, I know half the people in that photo. My wife is in that photo. Is that your high school class? Class of 68?”
I lied and said yes. I think it was my brother’s class.
“Cindy Bourdeau?”
No clue.
“Oh, yes! Cindy! Haven’t seen her in ages! What’s she doing?”
“I married her forty years ago”
“Well, that is amazing, she was such a great—“
“Billy Cornell. Did you know Billy?”
No clue.
“Of course! Billy was such a funny–:
“Billy is my cousin.”
“That is so funny! I think I was in Billy’s algebra—“
“Karen Costello. Right? Karen was in your class”
No clue.
“Karen. I thought she moved, I don’t know, out west or”
“Karen? No Karen is still around, works with Cindy at the Court House—stenographer.”
The assistant manager folder her arms and leaned against the dumpster. She checked her watch and looked at the back door of the store. The sun was beating down hot on our heads and the dumpster smelled bad. Her eyes narrowed and studied the asphalt. I tried to meet her eyes as I charmed the cop, to let her know that I knew she’d tried to fuck me up and she wasn’t going to get away with it.
The policeman suddenly remembered the assistant manager.
“Oh, ma’am, sorry… this is just a coincidence… this woman—“ He took a postcard out of the dumpster and read the name.. “Yes, you’re Casey right? Laurie Casey?”
“Yes—“
“Yes…right…well, I’m pretty sure Cindy must know you.”
I bull shited with the cop for another half hour. This person, that person, didn’t know any of them though some of the last names seemed familiar.
“Lambert. Johnny Lambert—was he in your class?”
Etc. etc.
The dog was getting hot next to the dumpster.
“Listen, why don’t I pay for the dumpster to be emptied. I’d be more than happy to do that…”
The assistant manager perked up and smirked.
“It costs between 400 to 600 dollars to have that dumpster dumped out. We only do it once a month, and look, it’s full and we aren’t scheduled for a pick up for another week.”
Oh God, I thought, this is bad.
The policeman pondered the problem.
“Well, that seems pretty steep. But it’s less money than what it’ll cost you to pay the fine.”
“Who do I pay?” I asked the assistant manager. She pointed to a number of the dumpster.
“You’ll have to call Carreas” She said.
“The Carreas. They’ve done well for themselves” said the policeman.
“Rodney Carreas, did you know him?”
God, I wished I did.
“I don’t think so”
“Rodney has a couple of other businesses in town… Not a bad guy, Rodney. Done well”
I got the address of Carreas Waste Management Agency and went over to see if they’d give me a break, let me pay for two garbage bags, maybe go with them when they went to pick it up, help them out.
Rodney, after my explanation, sat in front of a computer to search for the Olympic Sports contract.
”You seem busy” I said, ass kissing.
“Nope. Not busy.”
“I would think waste management would be recession safe. Everybody has garbage, always”
“Well, it’s not that simple. Think about it. Nobody is building right now. No contracts for rental dumpsters, no contracts for demolition dumpsters”
I told Rodney about the cop finding a picture of his wife in the dumpster, trying to cheer him up, offering him a comic Waste Management story he could share around the water cooler.
“Here it is” he said. “Olympic Sports. Due for pick-up on Friday. 75 dollars.”
That bitch assistant manager, trying to scare me.
I offered to split the cost with Rodney.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rodney, eyes glued to the computer screen.
“I seen that cops wife. Her picture belongs in the trash.”