layover in boise
at last, the rain began.
heavy, swaying leaves
circular guitar lines, distant chimes and the cadence of water
breaking into pieces,
white spray in the wake of cars on silver streets
sssssshhhhhh
the playful bite of a young autumn, nipping at heels stepping
sharply over reflections in the pavement
...
a small retirement party.
fruit display, vegetable bowl. crab salad bruschetta. smoked salmon and brie. coconut chicken and ham asparagus wraps, brick drapes, stacks of salad plates reflecting warm candlelight, dimmed ballroom chandeliers. at the center of the room, a particularly pompous, self-important piano player is singing "what a wonderful world" and "as time goes by." fly me to the moon. and your song. sounds good.
one of the members is a financial advisor to one E, who is retiring. E. is a short, apple-shaped man with a small, tight mustache and a friendly helium voice. E. kind of reminds me of this guy. the party was set for forty people, and twenty came.
E.'s financial advisor sponsored the party because he works for AmeriSomething, who do retirement planning. he'd fanned small stacks of blue books entitled the dream book on each table. the dream book quoted Eleanor Roosevelt, who said, "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams."
the pace was relaxed, barely anything to do, so i stopped to stand in front of the windows in the lounge, watching the soft rain fall. an old man walked up and stood next to me in the grey light. weathered eyes, sagging, weathered steel eyes behind wireframe rims. he fumbled a little with his plate of hors d'oeuvres, and the fork fell off. i picked it up from the carpet and told him i'd get a new one. that's what we do. we get people new forks.
should i be bitter about my place in life? i would have been at twenty. i would have been a week ago. but today it seems silly. it's like getting upset that your flight's been cancelled and you've been laid over in boise for a day. yeah, it's idaho, but it's also boise. or it's boise, but it's also idaho. you still have your ticket. you're still on your way to where you're going. enjoy boise. shit, when's the next time you're going to be here again?
"here you go, sir."
"it's always like this," he said, with an air of contentment. he thanked me and took the fork. "it always starts this way."
"first rain?"
"your lawn starts to get brown. then it rains and shines. rains and shines..." his voice trailed off as he surveyed the course. "everything gets green again and you find you have to get out and mow it a few more times before winter." he laughed about it.
"oh..."
"boy, it's so nice to see green grass."
"one of the perks of working here -- you can always look out and see green." not meaning to pun it.
he chuckled and nodded, and we stood. i thought of asking him if he needed anything, but it didn't seem right.
"it's a nice change," he said.
"yeah, it was actually kind of pleasant to wake up this morning and see that it was raining."
"everything feels new."
"yeah."
"good smell, too. such a clean smell."
"yes." i glanced at the other guests and remembered i was at work. "can i get you anything" i asked, out of habit.
"no, i'm fine," he said, out of habit.
and we stood for a quiet moment, watching the rain fall softly on the greens.
...
currently listening
six organs of admittance
school of the flower
heavy, swaying leaves
circular guitar lines, distant chimes and the cadence of water
breaking into pieces,
white spray in the wake of cars on silver streets
sssssshhhhhh
the playful bite of a young autumn, nipping at heels stepping
sharply over reflections in the pavement
...
a small retirement party.
fruit display, vegetable bowl. crab salad bruschetta. smoked salmon and brie. coconut chicken and ham asparagus wraps, brick drapes, stacks of salad plates reflecting warm candlelight, dimmed ballroom chandeliers. at the center of the room, a particularly pompous, self-important piano player is singing "what a wonderful world" and "as time goes by." fly me to the moon. and your song. sounds good.
one of the members is a financial advisor to one E, who is retiring. E. is a short, apple-shaped man with a small, tight mustache and a friendly helium voice. E. kind of reminds me of this guy. the party was set for forty people, and twenty came.
E.'s financial advisor sponsored the party because he works for AmeriSomething, who do retirement planning. he'd fanned small stacks of blue books entitled the dream book on each table. the dream book quoted Eleanor Roosevelt, who said, "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams."
the pace was relaxed, barely anything to do, so i stopped to stand in front of the windows in the lounge, watching the soft rain fall. an old man walked up and stood next to me in the grey light. weathered eyes, sagging, weathered steel eyes behind wireframe rims. he fumbled a little with his plate of hors d'oeuvres, and the fork fell off. i picked it up from the carpet and told him i'd get a new one. that's what we do. we get people new forks.
should i be bitter about my place in life? i would have been at twenty. i would have been a week ago. but today it seems silly. it's like getting upset that your flight's been cancelled and you've been laid over in boise for a day. yeah, it's idaho, but it's also boise. or it's boise, but it's also idaho. you still have your ticket. you're still on your way to where you're going. enjoy boise. shit, when's the next time you're going to be here again?
"here you go, sir."
"it's always like this," he said, with an air of contentment. he thanked me and took the fork. "it always starts this way."
"first rain?"
"your lawn starts to get brown. then it rains and shines. rains and shines..." his voice trailed off as he surveyed the course. "everything gets green again and you find you have to get out and mow it a few more times before winter." he laughed about it.
"oh..."
"boy, it's so nice to see green grass."
"one of the perks of working here -- you can always look out and see green." not meaning to pun it.
he chuckled and nodded, and we stood. i thought of asking him if he needed anything, but it didn't seem right.
"it's a nice change," he said.
"yeah, it was actually kind of pleasant to wake up this morning and see that it was raining."
"everything feels new."
"yeah."
"good smell, too. such a clean smell."
"yes." i glanced at the other guests and remembered i was at work. "can i get you anything" i asked, out of habit.
"no, i'm fine," he said, out of habit.
and we stood for a quiet moment, watching the rain fall softly on the greens.
...
currently listening
six organs of admittance
school of the flower