The VIP And The Waitress

I'm Taking A Ride In My Best Friends Car

Are you sure you wanna do this? This was his opening line in response to my invitation to talk to me in private email. The scent of old man gases wafted out of my computer cracks making my toes slightly curl. For heavens sake I thought, I was guilty of “doing something” before I’d even thought of doing it, whatever “it” was. I was too empathic to be able to get by in this world.


After all, he continued, we are getting older. I tried to think of something witty to say, but my crust meter was reading awfully high with this cookie monster. Somewhere along the line I’d lost the reasoning behind the need for witty retorts to win friends and influence people.


After carefully considering it probably didn’t matter what I said in the end analysis, and I was just a ship passing in the night anyway with a toot for a voice, I replied “Oh, I don’t know. The artichoke mask seems to be working!”


My reward for that little comment was a chuckle spelled LOL. Even if I was kidding myself, it was fun to think maybe the mask was working after all. Years later the old lady that was I sits and considers in the fading twilight what she might have said differently if she’d only read the same smart ass manual that he had.

Wait. This Isn't Working

Oh oh. This is gonna be all over FaceBook now! See what you done?
Oh oh. This is gonna be all over FaceBook now! See what you done?

Well, Here We Are. You Want To Go First?

I apologize to confuse the reader if I lapse into 3rd person language then cascade back into “I” this, and “I” that. I think perhaps my higher self says “she” and when I use “I” it means there’s been a merge between these two gals as to who is who exactly. The reader may consider as I do myself, that “I” am but a finger on the hand of the higher self, what you might call a probe sent to earth to probe physicality and getting quite forgetful of who I really am, makes each memory a self revelation, while to the reader it rather looks like futile blatherings. Such as it may be, back to meeting a VIP, and one that doesn’t live at all close to my own world.


If love was like money she could have said “Gimmee some.” That’s what he had said at one time, and she so liked to repeat the things he said, as he took her fancy rather. She might have continued with improvised wit to say “Gimmee some of that there bank heist you pulled off so elegantly just with your croak and your pellet gun, I can’t believe you charge admission just to be yourself.”

Otherwise sorry to take up your time. Perhaps there’s a thousand other places you’d like to be than here with me. Don’t let me keep you.”

Let's See If I Can Make Her Wag Her Tail, Right!

So, How Did You Find Out my age?

Later she thought in private, dam, he’s right. I am too old for this. She tried to sneak off quietly and wouldn’t you know he still followed close behind her in the shadows, exactly like a stalker. Maybe she’d used too much artichoke mask after all?


Change of scenes: Old men still dream dreams. They, old men, sometimes chastise the dreamers, while they turn around and make money off their own dreams. It didn’t make a lot of sense so she didn’t try to understand.


We never actually get old on this planet. What happens is the body wears out, starts to sag. The teeth may fall out. A bald spot may appear on the head; we call this aging process. Our spirits remain youthful as ever, and once the body is laid down, we then resort to our internal spiritual form, that of eternal youth in all it’s glowing vibrancy. We may look in the mirror and say, “what happened?” That can’t be me. And it’s not your real self. Whatever it looks like, you gotta try and make it work for you. It’s how we keep on keeping on.

What Do I Want?

It was inbred we could die here. The idea of the game was to die, but try not to die by accident. Die consciously with the choosing of that.


The old man drags himself up the hill. He’s secretly sick of love but wants to go up where the air is pure and feels good to breath. He spots some purple flowering bushes and for a moment enjoys the color and scent of beauty. He slides into a chair at a local cafe. He’s on the prowl but loath to admit it. The waitress comes over and he asks her “what do I want?”


Hard boiled eggs she says. That’s whats on the menu.


OK he replies: gimme some.


You came too soon she says, we ain’t got any.


The old man gets up to leave and he thinks he may return if he gets to feeling better. The old lady doesn’t care one way or the other what he does. It’s not like she controls the timing of the delivery trucks that come here with fresh hard boiled eggs to serve to customers.


She knows he doesn’t eat soft boiled. He only knows what’s hard, quick and right on. She knows they’re opposites; she’s always talking people up. He’s always talking down at people. Nothing is gonna change there. They both know that. And somewhere in both of them, in the heart of the matter, they’d discovered opposites kill each other; perhaps in the same way that water puts out a fire; both are elements of our world but you don’t usually see a flame sitting on a wave. You can see water condensing from heat..but then it’s no longer water, it’s called mist. And the mist was blue, like the old man, it was misty blue.

Thanks For The Memories; I Think!

It’s not true about opposites attracting. Actually opposites repel each other. Every good scientist knows that. She’d never claimed to be a scientist. It was actually a disdainful thought. Yet she drifted every day over to where the scientists sat and talked. They kept their emotions in a bucket and passed the time adding 2 plus 2, making sure it really was 4. The only thing that made it four, was their mutual agreement that it was indeed, 4. So mostly they didn’t argue while opposites generated heat and made the water turn into vapor and disappear somewhere. She fell back on his words that it was only life, and nothing more than that.


She would go off somewhere and write things down, as if that mattered, but maybe her kids would read it when they too got old, so the words wouldn’t be wasted to some misty blue conclusion.


The old guy would go off and write things down too all the while baying at the moon like a wolf, all alone on a mountain top. He would write about her, and all the she wolves he had known; she would write about the ones that got away.


What is this? The old lady would ask the gypsy. Oh, it’s God the gypsy would reply. She would be disappointed that the gypsy didn’t know any more about relationships than she herself did and she was glad she hadn’t paid this one only to find out something that neither of them knew.


It’s God. The old lady wanted to know one more thing, but she probably wouldn’t get the answer. How long does it take hard boiled eggs to finally get delivered, and by the time they got to the cafe, would they just be rotten? It’s an honest question. In the end, she was still glad the old man had dropped by even if it was all ever so weird, it was strangely memorable.

Laughing Rain's Road Signs of Life

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