Shopping with Bukowski

I'm up early. The coffee is on and I'm reading some of Bukowski's short stories. If you're not familiar with Bukowski, he was a writer and poet that is associated with the Beats, but to me he doesn't really fit into that association. He possesses far less of the hippyness and more of the drunken, gambling, lecherous loser category that would seem to ridicule the Dharma Bums sooner than he would embrace them.

I like his stuff because there's a rawness and honesty to it. He puts it all out there and he tells it like it is; boils, warts, shit, puke, and all. He's a controversial figure in the writing world and probably more so, from a poetic standpoint. He's misogynistic, rude, crude, dirty and incredibly funny.

I, myself have to be careful as I'm an easy mark. I have a tendency to be influenced by the influences around me. Just because Chuckie boy got away with speaking his mind, doesn't give me license to do the same.

Yesterday was a good case in point. I stopped at a corner store, as if there is such a thing anymore. I bought a paper and as the cashier rang it up, asked me if I had my rewards card handy. My mind immediately raced with flurry of one liners and rude responses, one of which being, "Does Big Brother really need to know that I do the crossword in USA Today?" But I smiled, said "no" and kept my comments to myself.

I have to remember that I'm not Bukowski...but I'm slipping.

Christmas Morning Bed In

We stayed up later than usual this Christmas Eve. Deb and I finally decided to turn in around 2:30 am, but we didn't stress because our kids, now 17 and 16 would not be up at the crack of dawn begging us to go downstairs to see what Santa had left. Those days are over.

I clearly remember long past Christmas Eves where Deb and I, like many other parents would be up until the weary hours of the night, wrapping, and assembling the kids booty. My most favorite and equally horrifying memory is that of opening a Fischer Price remote control car and track we had bought for Zach. I was relieved and elated when I opened the huge four foot long box to find that there were only a small number of pieces to assemble. My happiness turned into horror when the four foot long sheet of stickers slipped out of the box. Every flag, every wheel cover, and even the white lines on the road had to be affixed with the corresponding sticker. It was like some evil half assed sobriety check, but I digress.

Our kids now would more likely have to be woken up around 10:00 or even later, so we slept soundly with no need to arise and no need to travel. It was Vanessa who stood over our kig size bed at 7:20. Not too early, but I was certainly not ready to step out. I asked her to wake Zach and have him come in to our bedroom. Zach came in and joined Vanessa, Deb, myself, not to mention dogs Bean and George.

The six of us laid in the king size bed under the covers and talked. No television, no phone, no texts and no distractions were present as the four of us shared stories of Christmas days' past. We smiled, giggled and laughed for the next 40 minutes or so, then we sprang into Christmas action. There were presents to open and a house to prepare for the throngs of friends and neighbors that would share our day, and a great day it was, but it couldn't and wouldn't equal those first minutes where we hung out together under the covers.

It was an unplanned magical little moment that has earned a place in the Calabrese Christmas Memory Hall of Fame and I think it was the coolest thing ever.

"Ms. Calabrese, Please Come Claim Your Lost Child"

I'm lost. Well, I'm not really lost, I'm just separated from my wife. Not relationship wise. I'm not living in some crappy apartment with pizza boxes and dirty underwear strewn about the place, I just can't seem to physically find her. I'm somewhere in Target and so is she, but I haven't seen her in what seems to be hours. I search up and down the aisles, partially blinded by the bright fluorescent lights that illuminate the vast "Made in China" sea of merchandise. Every time I think I see her, I rush over to find that it's some other shopper. She's dragged me along shopping again.

This is all my fault of course. I have the attention span of a gnat, and I wandered off early in our trek. Actually early inaccurately indicates that I was actually on track at some point. The reality is, as soon as we entered the store and found ourselves in the women's apparel section, I was gone. At least in my head. Oh, I offered my usual comments when we passed by the woman's undergarments section, but immediately after I drifted. Just a little bit at first, but then just a tad further, much like a new swimmer drifts just a little bit further into the deep end of the pool, but at some point can't see the rope that keeps we kiddies safe and accounted for.

Maybe this is her fault. I didn't want to come shopping and I didn't buy her comment that it would be a great way for us to spend some time together. We're not together. I didn't want to come here. This doesn't make me happy, and what's worse, I haven't seen her. I'm still wandering and I'm frustrated that I can't find her. There's a good chance that she's pissed that I've deserted her and I'm anticipating the scolding that I'm about to receive, "No wonder you got lost. I told you to stay by my side!"

Eventually, I have a flash of brilliance and reach for my cell phone. I call her, but much like the deep dark depths of the South American Rainforest there's no service. I keep moving up and down the aisles with no success and I eventually end up in the far reaches of the store where the damaged, discounted and out of season items are displayed. There are no women in this part of the store, just damaged lawn furniture and unsold gas grill replacement parts. I'm scared, cold and lonely. The only source of comfort is that there's a handful of other lost husbands, each of us sporting glazed over eyes, trembling and fearing the scolding that awaits us. Each of us awkwardly look at each other, but eventually I build up the courage to speak. I talk about us banding together and forming our own society of Lost Boys where we'll run across the country side causing havoc, eating pizza and drinking beer. Then our conversation abruptly comes to an end. Deb's standing at the end of the aisle. Her arms are crossed and she's tapping her foot. I bid my comrades farewell, "Uh, guys my wife's here...I have to go."

Deb has a handful of stuff that she's balancing because all this time I've been walking around with an empty shopping carriage. She smiles, pats me on the head and promises me a cookie if I stay with her. Finally we shop together. I start out strong but it's not long that I begin yawning. My feet start to drag and eventually, I assume the husband position of resting my weight on the handle bar of the carriage, dragging my feet. At some point I realize that the bottom panel of the carriage make a cool noise so I start to kick it with each step. I develop what I hear as a cool little rhythm until Deb stops and say, "Will you please stop doing that?"

Deb tries to enlist my help by asking my opinion on grab items for her co workers, this despite the fact that both of us know that she doesn't need my input. "What do you think about this for Ms. O'Neill? I offer a quick, "Yeah, that's great, but in my head I'm saying, "I don't really give a sh*#."

To Deb's credit, she keeps her composure and does her best to keep me engaged and entertained. Then she has her revenge. We still have other shopping to do including groceries, and I offer to stay in the car while she finishes her holiday shopping, then we can do the groceries together. She says, "I have a better idea. I'll go to TJMAXX alone, but I'll drop you off so you can do the food shopping, then I'll meet you there. It'll save us time." I sigh, but I agree and she bets me to see who will finish first. We part, and I rush around the store with my list filling my carriage as fast as I can. I proudly proclaim to myself, "I'll show her how to shop!" I weave in and out of the other shoppers like a man on a mission and I quickly empty my list as my carriage becomes full. When I get to the last aisle, I see Deb walking toward me. She's smiling and says, "I beat you. I win." I correct her and proudly state, "Uh, uh. I'm finished. I win!" Or did I?

Just Another Day in New York City

We met Jen and Geoff at the Cascade Diner after a long night of holiday overindulgence and dancing. George and Denise's dance mix kept a good portion of the Brooklyn revelers moving throughout their spacious brownstone and we were all feeling the effects our moves and the various concoctions that lubricated, not so much our joints but our inhibitions. This morning we were moving a little slowly, but our pace was assisted by the anticipation and excitement of spending the day running around Greenwich Village and Midtown Manhattan.

After a bright and brisk walk over the Brooklyn Bridge where I continually fell behind the rest of the group. I, like the other hundreds of digital camera toting tourists, aspired to capture an image of the great bridge that would probably pale in comparison to the many photos and postcards sold at the many souvenir stands around the bridge. My friend Eric's comments rang in my ears, "Oh yeah, your picture will be different."

It was Eric who sent a text to sister Jen and suggested Walker's Bar where we could get a much needed Bloody Mary, a sort of Hair of the dog thing. The bar was small and busy, but Eric's recommendation was spot on, in that it met the quaint, almost seedy, but not too seedy atmosphere we desired.

The Bloody Marys were spicy and immediately hit the spot. We made small talk with the gentleman that sat to Deb's right. The same man who offered to move to accommodate our little group. Jen was lured into a strange conversation with a young man who stated he was working, yet was drinking at the bar and went on to tell her an unsolicited tale of how his friend was "date raped" the prior evening. Typical small talk between strangers, right?

The coughing came from our fellow patron in the corner. It wasn't a productive cold type of cough and it initially sounded like the man had taken water down the wrong pipe, but it was immediately clear that his wind pipe was blocked by something more substantial. The man was in trouble and we all knew it. I jumped out of my chair and worked my way toward him, first by telling, or I should say yelling at Deb to get out of the way. As his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness, I got behind the man, picked him up and pulled my clenched fists up into his abdomen. Quite honestly I didn't know what I was doing and it occurred to me that he may die in my arms. This thought scared me and made me pull even harder. Then he slid off of the chair and I was now carrying his full dead weight. I called to Geoff to help me lift him, and after another a few more forceful squeezes the guy regained consciousness. Like a light switch he went from limp, pale and rolled back eyes to the animated life he was just a minute or two before. He asked if he had fainted. He was confused and embarrassed, but he was alive.

The once interested restaurant crowd saw that the man was breathing and back on his bar stool. None of the folks offered assistance or called 911. When it was over no one clapped, validated or acknowledged what had just transpired. The event had happened and now it was over. They returned to their eggs, mimosas and conversations. It was as if this type of thing happened often and it was only our little group that found the experience beyond the routine routine.

After Debbie's numerous requests, the bartender finally came over with a glass of water. He placed the glass on the bar and used the same hand to pull the guy's plate away from him with a snide, "I assume you're done with this." The man didn't resist. We spent a little more time in the bar and finished our drinks. We declined the man's kind request to the bartender, "Get my medical team another round." We made sure the guy was okay, said our farewells and went off to seek out new adventures.