almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

As I sit here this morning staring out at milk-gray sky, languishing over my third cup of coffee while still dressed in pajamas and robe, I feel the weight of the coming winter upon my psyche. There is a light blanket of snow covering the barren brown landscape and we were treated to freezing rain yesterday, though the result was far less bothersome than what was predicted. I heeded the warnings, though, ran my errands early and huddled in the basement while my dinner cooked, the oven warming the entire first floor as the lowly Lions slowly let one more game slip away. The weatherman says that another system will be bringing rain and freezing rain for tomorrow as well. I'll believe that when I see it.

My real reason for writing is a bit more somber than the change of seasons, though. Both somber and uplifting, I should say, for I remain positive in the midst of my dreary surroundings, thanks in large part to the mystery of memory and the inspiration of the spirit.

After putting the finishing touches on a particularly troubling job last week, I found myself rolling slowly north on Woodward at one a.m. on Thursday, several pints of Ghettoblaster in place to ease the stress of an already too long work week that had involved late nights of toil and much anxiety. My two-hour stay at Honest John's had been well spent, playing their amazing jukebox and engaging in conversation with complete strangers while the mouth-watering Shelley kept the beer flowing. The traffic along M-1 was light and I felt complete peace and relaxation for the first time in a number of days. I could feel a smile come over my face as I drove, and at some point, about mid-way through Highland Park, I was struck by the sudden laughter of our mutual friend, the dearly departed G-1. In my memory, Glen was pitching his head-back-and-eyes-closed belly laugh to the cold night sky, and I could hear the bagpipes playing 'Amazing Grace' as the image slipped from my mind as quickly as it had come.

What could have triggered it? M-1... G-1? Did I pass a street that subconsciously made me think of my years residing in Hamtramck? Perhaps it was just that the Christmas spirit had finally come into me and my weary mind had loosely called up holiday memories, one of my fonder ones being of an Easter Sunday some time ago when Glen had joined me for dinner, two alcoholic bachelors with no better place to go. Glen was driving his motor home at the time, hitched his power cord to an outlet here at the house and recharged his batteries while we ate roast chicken, drank Blue and watched 'The Ten Commandments' on television, each doing our best Edward G. Robinson imitation whenever he appeared on screen. All I know is I was grateful for whatever circumstance had caused the sudden flood of good memory, felt comforted by the experience, and still draw some comfort from it this Monday morning.

It wasn't as though he had spoken to me, you understand. I can only say that the presence of his spirit was strongly felt, and the memory that he could conjure up such a hearty laugh when times were difficult gave me more than a little inspiration to do the same.

Earlier in the afternoon that same day I had been sitting at the counter at China Ruby, trying to squeeze in the lone meal I would have time for between jobs, trying to relax and digest my Garlic Chicken Combo as best I could for the precious half-hour that I had to myself. Directly across Nine Mile from the restaurant is a bus stop, and folks were beginning to gather in anticipation of the next westbound on the schedule. Just as I began to eat my hot and sour soup, a frenzied young man scurried in, stood right next to me and practically shouted: “Small plain rice to go! Hurry! I'm waiting for my bus!”

“One prain rice,” said the girl at the register. “Dolluh-serty-sree.”

“To go!” reiterated the frenzied young man as he handed her two frazzled-looking ones. “Hurry! Right away!” He did everything but clap his hands together and yell: “Chop chop!”

When the girl turned to prepare his order, he shouted in my ear again. “Don't forget my change!”

“It a coming,” said the girl.

When she handed him his rice and the change, he said “Thank-you” for the first time before shooting out the door and across the street without leaving a tip.

I looked at the girl and said, “I don't know how you do it.” She gave me a puzzled look. “I mean how you deal with people like that every day. I'm just sitting here trying to enjoy my dinner and he has to rush in here and ramp everything up. I almost said something to him myself, like 'Shut up, already, she heard you'.”

She shrugged, obviously confused by my use of the word 'ramp'. “Dey come in alla time. Want hurry up. I tell dem, 'Cannot cook-a dat fast'. Always come in. You get use to it.”

As I sit here now, thinking of G-1 and the girl at the restaurant, thinking about how I allow my work and things like that frantic young man's behavior to increase my stress, how the two incidents transpired in a span of less than twelve hours, I remember how calm the Chinese girl was and by contrast, how stressed I felt at the time. There was hidden wisdom in her shrug.

Looking back now, I think I'll let go of the image of that selfish young man, let go of work stress and selfish people in general whenever possible. And in the future when I look back on that long and stressful work day in December, I think I'll choose to define and fondly recall it by the way it ended... with a mysterious, miraculous visit from an old friend who pitched his belly laugh to the cold night sky, head back, eyes closed.

At least that way, I'll smile.

Regards and Well Wishes,
'Kreskin' Sherman