After living through the best of times, there’s only one way to go.
What’s better than the best?
The correct answer is nothing, but that’s not the answer you’ll get from drunks and drug addicts.
It’s hard to tell any time when you’re numbed to reality.
The only reality I know that produces the best of times is living long enough to find a good woman, to see kids grow up and flourish, to see grandkids from the get-go learn their way around.
Also, a good dog who seems to enjoy their time with you is nicer than imagined.
But it wasn’t always like that for me.
The group I was raised with all got married early, real early, like early twenties.
I could never imagine that. Then they started having kids and somehow I became a new uncle.
While they were settling in for the long haul with growing families, I was circulating.
The young women I met as a young man had plans for us that went right by me.
My plans never changed: get a job, get an apartment, and write like I do now.
Once my girlfriend started chipping into my writing time it was time to end things.
Was I a mystery? Far from it, but not everyone agrees with spending time with a pencil and paper, with a typewriter and white-out, with a keyboard and a screen.
Was I selfish? That’s what I heard and once I heard it I agreed. The break-up soon followed.
Best Of Times Started With A Plan
Like I said, my plans never changed, but once I found out I had to change to keep a relationship moving the right direction, it happened.
I changed. It started one night.
I was in the wind relationship-wise, which means I wasn’t making any commitments and decisions to anyone.
A former girlfriend-ish woman got in touch with me and wanted to come by.
I told my current girlfriend-ish woman that I may have to leave town with my old flame.
And why not? I had few ties in town, shallow roots, and young enough to make another run.
Another run? The first had taken me from Eugene to Delaware, then New York, before coming to Oregon.
All of my moves had relationship partner potential, so leaving town was not out of the question.
My visitor was late and gave me time to reconsider.
The more I thought about it, the more I fell back into the question of ‘Upper Hand.’
She calls me, I’m available, and she’s late. Who had the upper hand?
So I unplugged my telephone, committed to not being an insensitive jerk to the one person who seemed to like me, and went to sleep.
I woke up at 3:30 and plugged my phone back in and it started ringing.
So I answered.
Me: Hello.
Her: I hate you.
Me: Join the club.
Her: Why didn’t you answer your phone. I waited outside your building for hours and called five times from the pay phone up the street.
Me: I thought you had other plans.
Her: You were my other plans.
Me: Then come on over. But wait, you hate me.
Her: I’m not going anyplace after being stood up.
Me: You stood me up so I unplugged my phone.
Her: That’s too bad for you.
Me: More like too bad for you. Maybe your next boy-toy will be more needy, more like you.
Her: I’m not needy. I don’t need anything. I just thought . . .
Me: You just thought you’d stop by and get all frisky and move on.
Her: A lot of guys would love that.
Me: And they’d wait all night. Those are your guys, not me.
Her: What makes you different?