Worst Birthday Ever or Pity and the Party it Wasn’t Invited To
A tall milkshake in the sweltering 48 degree sun makes for the perfect companion to a slow burning Camel Light, and possibly the last of its kind to find their way into my hands. I’m making the switch to American Spirit. Less flavor, sure, but less cancer too, if what I’ve been telling myself is true.
Not much of a big deal was made of my birthday, though perhaps due to my Google Talk status or possibly out of friendship alone, many a person gave me the old IM and helped up the curve ratio on my smile. A slow, easy day of working, smoking, coffee shop lifestyles, something that one can grow accustomed to and, if not desperately careful, take for granted, ensued until later when yellow school busses flashing to a stop the importance of their cargo delivered me one package, a fine small boy, aged 5 years to his current 3 or 4 foot status. We meandered through the deceptively warm streets of Pittsburgh’s Eastern End, buying foodstuffs from our local organics dealer, with jars and bags and boxes claiming no GMOs and organic ingredients listed one after two after another, all promising to fuel my body into aging gracefully.
The culmination of time and perfection came as, after the two of us powering through a four paper bag load about 10 blocks home, found ourselves back into the streets and off to the bar for a beer and some dinner on the front porch. He was running around the patio, which we had all to ourselves, pretending to be a ninja. I was sitting and pretending to be a 28 year old father, but lets face it, no one was buying it.
The waitress complained about me making her come out into the cold. The owner stopped by to meet my son and various local drinkers nodded their heads or asked about the boy as they came and went. I smiled and couldn’t feel more at home anywhere.
Up Next: Recanting