I am writing this lament lying on a mattress 6 inches off the floor. I am typing on Jane’s laptop with its chiclet keys which suck. The Gates gadjet rests on a Casablanca ceiling fan box, the fan itself, recently installed, is blowing air about my buttocks. Things have not gone well. The paint job was poorly done and confrontation is around the corner; the newly laid carpeting was defective and has to be removed at no cost to us except we had to invest more to get better. Because of these delays, our furniture lies crated in our garage. Consequently we are sleeping on the floor, have no real dining table to eat at and are thoroughly stressed and inconvenienced. I am in a passive mode, realizing that shit happens and that people fuck you out of stupidity, seeking short cuts, negligence and lumbering imbecilities. One handyman we dismissed early because he was as communicative as Lon Chaney Jr during full moon. I realize full well that I cannot count upon the kindness of strangers.
We are encountering hard times and dealing at moments with bad luck, agonizing accidents and diminished human beings. I read a book written by a Holocaust survivor I met at a brunch last Sunday. We exchanged books. After reading it, I have no real complaints. I am not starved, I am not whipped nor have I had a rubber truncheon tattoo my body. I did not experience a young baby grabbed by its chubby legs and whipped against a railcar wheel, its brains splattered about. No, I will not complain but simply lament these shitty adversities and slosh through the dreck with fortitude.
Jane and I are made of sterner stuff. Between her mastectomy and rearing by a demented Scarlett O’Hara mother who smokes cheroots and thinks she is Miss Kitty, Gunsmoke’s great whore, and my trail of tears, we will make it. As I think about it perhaps I may get off on all this misery, a kinky secondary gain. It is all so tiring, wearisome and frustrating.
We try to get away psychologically from all this mess by gambling at the slots; we seek out different restaurants — many good ones at that. We shop for household items and in so doing pleasure ourselves on buying for our home, for we are quite taken with this well-maintained community. We notice little things such as showing ID whenever we use a charge card — Las Vegas is the king city for identity theft; Jane observes how too much of supermarket shopping is self-service. I observe that Vegas seems to be growing out of some desert embryo, for the desert and the acute mountain peaks seem disturbed by these invading ants. Vegas seems new to me and in continuing development. Again the species tears up the land. No one belongs in Vegas. It is a violation. Rightfully so, the Native American realizes how diminished we are.
The temperature a few days ago was 108. At times this Jew and Jack Mormon are about in the noonday sun. I am always aware of it but I am inured to it; out west it is a sign of friendliness to offer bottled water to customers, workers and those potential folk who will ultimately end up fucking you. The heat is draining and you have to keep gurgling water to keep one’s senses clear.
When this aging old fart with the libido of a satyr on steroids cuddles fetally next to Jane, all is well. Refreshingly resilient with a grand sense of humor which can contain the Hebraic darknesses I own, with an openness and willingness to think better of others, Jane and I are a hilarious team — Mutt and Jeffing our way through life. Jane never had the experience of buying cookies in a Jewish bakery. She reminds me that growing up cookies meant Oreos and Lorna Doones, not the buttery, nutty, and chewy delicacies I knew as a child. Recently at a gathering of Holocaust survivors, Jane sampled real Jewish food. It is not in her experience to buy cookies by the pound, freshly made. So, I found the same bakery for this event and we devoured half a pound of manna. That last sentence sums up what a Jewish husband — or any mensch should do. To care for another is to love.
I love my girl.
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