His alarm went off, he was showered and half dressed before he realized... it was quarter to five in the morning. I told him to back to go sleep, forget the bus, I would drive him to town.
I let him off near his office, parked the van in my old neighborhood and fell asleep, then got up and went to my favorite barbershop so I could look my best for World Fantasy Con this weekend.
My barber is too shy to talk of his (male) amours when others are in the shop; I'm grateful we're by ourselves. I ask him about the bear cub who looks after his dogs--is there anything between them?
"No," he says. And then whispers: "Drama."
Falling leaves and roads silvered with rain make for a dangerous drive; on the way to see my playwriting teacher for coffee and notes on my play, I see a shattered windshield, a head resting on a steering wheel, police standing helplessly by. The drivers ahead of me slow for a chunk of human flesh to chew on their journey.
At the coffee shop, the barrista has just learned, today, that the baby she is expecting is bringing a friend. My playwriting teacher asks if there are twins in her family.
"No," says the barrista, still more dazed than happy.
My teacher tells me about her trip to New York to get a play produced. As is often the case, her thoughts on the writing life, and life in general, are more mature and developed versions of my own recent inchoate thoughts. I tell her it was destiny I should be in town today, and find that, between the haircut, and our conversation, I feel more at ease going into the weekend.
On my way back, all trace of the accident has been cleared away. I'm angry that people stopped to gawk. The dead are so wholly naked; if nothing else we owe them privacy.
I decide to post my best photo, the leaping Live8 kid, and write something profound about the preciousness and brevity of life, maybe contrasting the photo with Samuel Beckett's phrase:
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
I realize it won't come together, it will be ridiculous.
At home, I find that--despite the haste and chaos of his departure this morning--my compadre made the bed.
It looks, as always, beautiful, and if there's no meaning, that's meaning enough.
Later tonight, my father will call with the news that I'm an uncle.
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