Perspective

When the lady in the Subaru coasted into my rear bumper, it barely registered. Yes, I looked in my rear view mirror to see her throw her hands up in a gesture of apology, and made note of her front end as I pulled away (no readily visible damage), but I had other things on my mind. Mostly, my state of mind.

It was a pretty warm day, at least for around here. I was running errands in my rig sans AC,  which included searching for a toilet seat to match a base ten years older than my twenty-five year old truck. In that I hadn't brought the old seat with me,  I had a mustard color in my brain. Lots of white and bone-colored lids, but nothing tinted my way.

But this wasn't what was bugging me. I was wondering how I was going to squeeze in a visit with my fishing buddy before rush hour traffic, and this navigating what were already very congested roads. So, when rear-ended, instead of getting out to inspect the damage and scream obscenities, I opted to keep moving. Plus, I needed the breeze.

A minute later, the song playing on my stereo began to skip around, not the way a CD creates that fast and repetitious rhythm when it skips, for I do not have a CD player, but in the way that told me my iPod was overheating in the docking mechanism. How, one may ask, did I know that this was the case? Because I damaged the battery in the same manner a few weeks ago. Brand new iPod, brand new dock/player, and fuck, I did it again. It'll cost $80 to replace the battery, which, coincidentally, is the same price I had been quoted for a custom-order toilet seat.

Onward. My fishing friend owns a restaurant. A damn fine eating establishment. I was to meet him at the shop. He was breaking a sweat dicing bread to make croutons.

"We're getting ready for the next Zulu charge."

"You have a lot of reservations for tonight?" I was a bit surprised, for the last two years have been tough. He had to lay off his sous chef and cut his wait staff, but today the place was hopping with three waiters, a new sous and a dishwasher.

"Yeah. Ever since we announced we were closing we've been getting slammed."

"You're closing?" This after ten years.

"Didn't I tell you? I thought I mentioned it when I had to cancel our road trip last month." He had not. "Every night since it was in the newspaper. People crying, begging me not to close shop. The waittresses have been playing a little game with them, saying, 'We'll miss you, too. When was the last time you were in for dinner?' Oh, about a year and a half."

"Well, I imagine this place holds some good memories for some folks."

He told me to go sit on the patio and he'd be right out to chat. I found some shade under a big cedar and sat in a plastic Adirondack chair. Not my favorite kind of chair as it more or less forces one to sit back, almost recline. I looked up into the branches of a tree I had not noticed before today. Back in the day, I use to deliver vegetables through the same back door I had just stepped through. Even after we quit farming, a lot of the extras from the garden came here gratis.

"Yeah, we're closing in ten days." I didn't say so, but I was getting some closure as well.

The visit was brief but we covered a lot of ground. We both said things that needed to be said.

One more errand to run. The grocery store. I took the back roads home to avoid rush hour and even though it most likely took even longer, I had time to reflect.

When I arrived home I took another look at the toilet. It was more of a bone than mustard.