At Least They're Committed

It’s a splendid October evening in Colorado and I’m walking Route No. 2, the 40 minute jaunt around Alexx’s and Michael’s Pondin the Broomfield Open Space. Deciding to combine important responsibilities, I’d trudge on in the beat-to-shit black tennies quickly at my disposal, the burgundy ‘Alaska’ sweats my brother bought my mom that were too small for her, a knit, white pullover V-neck shirt and D’s too-small-for-his-waist, twice as big as me green, nylon, fitted, man’s windbreaker. I threw my hippie bag — my fav in the fall with brown and orange and forest green splashes — over my shoulder holding nothing but my wallet and iPod. After 2.5 miles of walking the trails, the sun casting orange, pink and then gray, instead of maintaining my route on Zuni to the homestead, I cross the four lanes under the streetlamps, smiling at three boys playing on the supermarket lawn, checking out the Halloween stuff in the dollar store while wondering if the woman behind the register is their mom, ignoring the looks as I walked past the cavernous mouth of the

Safeway, and head to the liquor store. D’s about to head to softball and he likes his three beers when he gets home, especially since it’s a night game. For me? Well, sure I said I’d bypass my glass or two of wine tonight, but I lied. Actually, I told Brian I was thinking I might abstain, and he laughed. Monday nights are MY time, though my Dude (DSII) decided to stay home tonight and is watching THE Dude (The Big Lebowski), dueling dialogue against A7 . . . thinking Jeff Bridges is still winning out in the ‘fuck’ division.

Anyway, here I am with a small bottle of wine and three 24 ouncers knocking me off balance as I walk out of the liquor store (D has evolved from two to three, that extra 24 ounces is a bitch!) and stumble to try to find my stride walking across the parking lot toward the filling station. I’m still lopsided as I decide to pull my iPod out of my bag, stuff the buds in my ears and continue the six blocks home. I look up because I sense him, staring — um, guys, we have great periferal vision, I know when you’re taking long loving looks at me, OK? — he’s handsome, about 40 and trying to pay attention to the pump but finding himself stepping toward me. He’s buff, a little bit of a tummy but not bad, crew cut, slightly graying. I catch his eyes and he waits a moment then looks away.

I turn away and keep walking, aware that he keeps turning his head to me as he finishes ejaculating fuel into the tank of his car. For a moment I’m puzzled, then I hear his thoughts. OMG! He’s judged me! He wants to save me! A soul like myself, but misinterpreting the oversized jacket, the mismatched shoes, shirt and the heavy bag . . . praying for me as I pray for theirs. I smile. A man caught between two universes and six identities, like me? Nah. He’s not that complicated. He’s just worried about me. He wants to save me. Oh, sweetie!!!! No need! I’m peeeerrrfffectuly fine!

I smile and shift the bag to the other side of me to balance off in the end. The sun is gone and behind me a near-full moon has risen, I turn back and smile as Warren Zevon starts singing on my iPod. “Ahhwoooo!” I call out to no one as I walk. “Bip!” No, sweet man who wants to save me. I’m fine. Just fine. Or maybe he just wanted to boff me. “Draw blood.”