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"I wanna try it."
Brenda Morabito sits next to me, enjoying one of her aircraft carrier sized meals...this one would be an open turkey and gravy on rye, with steak fries. "Do you?"
"Yes. I wanna be your first massage. I'm brave."
"Well, your bravery has never been in question."
"My landlord can provide a table. She's in sports medicine."
How convenient! "Wonderful."
"Hey, I want one, too." Rochelle's refilling my coffee.
"No problem." It's not crowded on this Saturday night. Down the other end was this incredibly loud, obnoxious, Don Don level-stupid young girl who spewed moronities laced with choice profanities, but she and her cohorts have departed. Rochelle has programmed the satellite feed to play what I LIKE. Hence, we've got Miles Davis on the trumpet, Julian 'Cannonball' Adderley on alto, John Coltrane on tenor, Bill Evans on piano, Paul Chambers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on the drums.
The Jazz answer to the New York Yankees.
"So, when do you wanna do this?"
"Tomorrow morning?" Brenda looks hopeful. "The table is in the house."
I look at Brenda, and then at Rochelle. "Hmm. I wanted to sleep in. I'm dead tired."
"Look, I'll pay you. The market rate."
"I'll pay, too," Rochelle says.
"Okay." Truth is, I could use the money. "I can't promise you a professional job, you know. I've been in school only two weeks!"
"That's okay," Rochelle says. "We love you."
"And, we trust you," Brenda adds.
I take a deep breath. "So, you do. Can you provide twin sheets? Fitted and non-fitted?"
"I can," Rochelle says."
"Two sets, then."
"Sure."
"Then, we've got a date."
"Yay!" Rochelle's exuberant.
"I could really use a good massage," Brenda says.
"Then go see a professional."
"No, I want you to do it. I trust you."
Brenda trusts me. They both trust me. I trust myself. Oh well.
Rochelle goes back up the counter to serve what appear to be several Central American day laborers. Miles Davis and the crew at Newport give way to Art Blakey. I often think the jazz of the post-bebop period is primarily Saturday night music, best listened to very loud, with a shroud of cigarette smoke hanging over your head. You can simulate that, you know, right in your own home, and really add to the atmosphere by wearing a pair of extremely dark Ray Charles sunglasses. Someone not in the know walking into the room, seeing you sitting there in the sunglasses, with four or five cigarettes burning at the same time in an ash tray, and wearing headphones, might think interesting things about you, but why let this get in the way of your experience?
"What did you do today?" Brenda asks.
"Oh, a whole lotta nothin'. Went to do some shopping in the morning, hung out on the computer in the afternoon, went out store hopping with the Miz. Nothing special. I was on call at work till eleven, but I guess the young, dumb, full o' cum teenager we got on Saturdays came in. I'm like, fine, I need the rest."
"Yeah, here you are," Brenda says, forking a few steak fries, "doing school and a job at 46. It'll probably wear you down."
"Don't care. It's time."
"How does Carolyn feel?"
"One hundred percent support. She clued me in on the school."
"You married a good woman."
"Meanwhile, I sense that you found one yourself."
Wow. Just by referencing Mindy, even without mentioning her name, I could see Brenda's eyes light up like a cruise ship. "I think so, too. I'm so lucky."
"Law of Averages, Bren. You had to hit some time."
"The Law of Averages. The fickle finger of fate."
"I suppose." Rochelle brings me a small bowl of vegetarian chili, with a crust of Portuguese bread. "Either way, I'm glad you've found someone."
"She thinks the world of you, George."
Oh, stop it. You're making me blush. "I think she's great, too. Very sweet."
"I keep hearing Rose tell me that this is the one, that everything's finally gonna be alright." Rose is a long deceased partner of Brenda's; her first adult Lesbian relationship. Rose was killed in a bicycling accident, by an incredible coincidence, on my fifteenth birthday, back in 1976. A long, long, long time ago. Today, Brenda regards the spirit of Rose as her guardian angel. "I told Mindy about her."
"What's she think?"
"She understands. Completely."
"That's good."
"She says that it's okay, she doesn't feel like she's competing. I think she wants Rosie to like her too."
Rochelle sighs. "I think your ship's finally come into port."
"I think so, too," I add.
Brenda puts her fork down, and sighs. "I love Mindy. I'm so much in love with Mindy, that if she asked me to walk out onto 295 in the middle of traffic, I would. No questions asked." Brenda, the truly rough and tough lioness, is giving that testimony with more than a hint of helplessness in her voice. "I think I love Mindy even more than my own life."
"Oh, God," I say, breaking open the Portuguese roll. "No, you don't." Laughing, I add, "stop and listen to yourself."
"I'm listening to myself. That's all I do, George."
"That's all you can do."
"Can you be by me at nine tomorrow morning?"
"Sure. You know how to get there?" I ask Rochelle.
"I'll come in Gregory's car. It's got GPS. Can't lose."
And now for something completely different: the sounds of the satellite feed go to Antonio Carlos Jobim. "Good. I'll be there in the morning."
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Posted by Knoxxie03 on 2008-03-29 22:59:00 | Rating: | Views: 60
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I know how Brenda feels. It's a wonderful feeling. Especially when it happens when you least expect it. When it's the last thing on your mind. When you aren't even thinking that way. Then, Wham! God turns the page and it's a beautiful picture. It's so beautiful you don't know whether to laugh, cry or both...
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Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-04-03 15:46:43
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