The rumbling is still underway. My therapist said I may have to “let it be in the background,” meaning, “Live with it.” And I didn’t hear from my friend at DPW, so, a la Tara Brach in her book Radical Acceptance, when I retired for the night, I pictured myself sitting on a park bench with the rumbling next to me. I even gave it a cutesy name, Mr. Rumbly, and I pictured myself throwing an arm around its shoulder: “It’s OK; you can be here.” And then I went to sleep.
I ran into The Big T. as I got home from work yesterday and proposed that we view a DVD in his apartment Saturday night, as we fairly often do, but he is planning to go to a bluegrass show in Noe Valley, so it looks like we’ll get together Friday night. He usually goes to the annual bluegrass festival in Golden Gate Park, but gave up inviting me after I said three years in a row, “As long as they don’t play any bluegrass music.”
The last two shows I went to were Korn and Megadeth, both at the Warfield. At the Megadeth show, I was seated in front of an enthusiastic fan who kept punching the air, his fist whistling past my ear. I had formed a solid disliking for him when he realized there was someone external to the demographic sitting in front of him and engaged me in conversation: “Do you like hard rock? That’s cool! Do you like Megadeth? That’s cool! My mother likes Megadeth, too! She’s very cool.” By the time the show started, we were best friends. He had his son, nine or ten years old, with him, who, like me, was about to see Dave Mustaine for the first time, and we were both terribly excited. It was a wonderful show, with songs from throughout the Megadeth discography, and the sound was nicely balanced; it was loud but it wasn’t an undifferentiated wall of murk.
I called P. after talking to The Big T. yesterday. I’m still not brimming with forgiveness, but I figure I can spare a few minutes a day on the phone. Also, I can’t swear off seeing him permanently, because then I would never see Lourdes again, a tiny Filipina woman about four feet tall who can barely walk who lives at P.’s house and who is a profane and unrepentant bully. I adore her. (When I ask P. how she is, he always says, “She’s on top,” meaning in the sexual sense.) P. once compared her looks to Napoleon’s and showed me a picture to prove his point; he was correct. She often spends hours screaming the same phrase over and over at the top of her lungs, and she insults people in the vilest terms, but she is also very funny.
Someone else’s visitor once chuckled at her and Lourdes glared at her and said darkly, “How loud you laugh me!”
She can say dreadful things, but changes allegiances quickly. One minute it’s, “P.’s your boyfriend? I’m happy for you, sorry for him!” The next, it’s, “He’s lucky. You’re not.”
If I don’t see her in the TV room or creeping up and down the hallways, I go tap on her door, which is usually closed, and she yells, “Who is it?” “Linda, P.’s friend.” Pause. “Open the door!” I open the door three inches, which is as far as it can be opened, because she pushes boxes up against it and then sits behind the boxes in her wheelchair. I say, “You have a good fortress here,” and she might back up a bit so the door can be opened farther, and then we have a nice long chat. She mimics her young relatives holding out their hands and pleading, “Give me money!” She reminisces about her life and is very curious about mine; she always asks me if I had lunch and where I live and how I’m going to get back there. She advises me to be careful when I’m walking home. I told her my boss is, like her, Filipino and she said, “Ah! Does he say, ‘Linda! Do this! Linda! Do that!’?” I assured her that he does. Not long ago, she said with grudging admiration, “You’re pretty tall. Seven feet?”
At a random moment, she might announce, “I don’t like you!” But when we part, she gingerly extends an index finger and I extend one of mine, and, grimacing, we touch fingertips. Then I walk away, and whatever the time of year, can hear her calling after me, “Happy holidays!”
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