Going Out

Last night for the first time in weeks, I went out. I’ve been laid low by a nasty virus. I have been dragging myself each day to work, and home back to bed. (It’s not contagious.) I was tired of staying home and in need of some laughter. I decided to check out the new kitchen at the local watering hole which was closed for a very long time in bankruptcy due to incompetent management. The kitchen was opened last Thursday for the first time, and I wanted to sample the eats. Recently, some people from the neighborhood formed a consortium, bought the place, renovated it, rebuilt the defunct kitchen and hired many of the old staff members. It’s a bluesy sort of neighborhood bistro (The Northfield Roadhouse) with overtones of Cajun influences compliments of Chef Chris and the Nairobi Trio as well as the Witch Doctors, Mango pie, and several other local bands who play muted blues. The volume is deliberately turned down on their amplifiers so we can do what we came there for - to talk. The manager was wearing a black fedora, as were several other staff members. They looked so cool in their black shirts – like gangsters from the twenties with a modern flair. The main host, St. Pauli Tom (named after his favorite beer) is a 60’s kind of guy who has a perpetual grin on his face as if he has just played the most hilarious joke on life (which he has). Tom is famous for his parties, and the goal was to re-create the old place with new flavors. I think they have accomplished their goal. It is starting to be a “happening” place.


Murphy drove, and I was sitting next to him at the bar, sipping some gumbo when Murphy’s friend came in. I moved out of the way, and let him sit next to Murphy. I heard him say he was waiting for a long-haired blonde. Funny, I figured him for that kind of guy from the stories Murphy tells me of their drinking and womanizing together. He’s a confirmed bachelor, a gambler, a womanizer, and definitely not my sort of guy. The friend mumbled something about hating it when they’re late, and then grinned because, he obviously was going to wait. The games people play, I muttered back. The blond finally showed up. She’s a former friend of one of my good buddies, so I know about her a little. My good buddy is a very strong, funny, beautiful, smart woman married to a guy that I adore, and would immediately go for if he wasn’t already committed. The friend’s choice of women confirmed my impression of him. Murphy says the blond isn’t too bright, which suits his friend just fine. I already knew that about her, and the friend fell a few more notches on my respect-o-meter. Murphy wandered off.

Musicians from all over the area drop in to play. One came to sit next to me. He played some blues on his harmonica for a while. An interesting man, he’s about my age, but he’s pretty down at the heels. He’s a database designer who programs the old mainframes, and the work is drying up. He has to drive all the way to Cleveland to work, and comes home on week-ends. Perhaps I’ll see him again, perhaps not. I think you have to keep current, keep learning or else, you will get obsolete. Other friends came to fill Murphy’s empty stool one–by-one until I was surrounded. Rumors about a favorite bartender’s return next week were flying.

One of my favorite men came to sit with me and we talked about my writing. He’s one of my fans, and we think a lot alike. I’m plotting a book that has been lurking for a while that is based on the concept of time as spirals, not a flat line, and it plays with reality big-time. My character exists in the present and the past simultaneously since she is evolving into a shaman who exists in all times and places at once. In the transition, there is, of course, a love interest in his own spiral, and he is having trouble connecting with her. In their past spirals they are intertwined, but in the present one, their spirals only intersect tangentially. It’s complicated, and has a lot of imagery in it. I know where I want to go, but the danger is to fly too far too fast, and leave my readers behind. So, I welcomed a chance to talk about it with a mind that is as sharp as or sharper than mine, who could follow where I wanted to go without getting freaked out.

My lady friend, his wife, as always, wonders why a woman like me is alone, and I tell her, all the good men are taken after all, she has him. I tell her to take good care of him. I have eaten some Cajun gumbo, and some crab stuffed mushrooms, drank my two drinks – one before dinner, and one after. I am getting tired, and I want to go home. I go to look for Murphy who is being treated to a free beer by two cops who are winding down from their day, and who love Murphy because he has fixed them so many breakfasts, and told them so many bad jokes. It takes me a while to work my way across the room, because people along the way are friends, and each one has to hug me and ask me where have I been, and how I am and tell me their story. Murphy introduces me to the cops, one of whom was there the day Eddie died. Murphy goes out to warm up his car, comes back in, finishes his beer, and then we leave. It was a pleasant evening.

The only thing that nags a little at me is that the dumb blonde didn’t go home alone, and I did. I would not have chosen Murphy’s friend to go home with. I would have chosen a man like my friend’s husband, a man like my Eddie was who has loyalty, commitment, caring, tenderness, a smart man who would choose a strong, smart woman for his mate. I don’t know where to meet such men who aren’t already committed to someone. They are a prize, and their wives tend to hang on to them.