9/26/10

            A good shower is a great thing. I’m not usually one to promote the wonders of impeccable hygiene - in fact, the number of times per-week I’d partake in such pleasures would make some cringe. [The distain for the inconveniences of cleanliness flowed deep. With ten pairs of socks & underwear in the backpack, I managed to go washingmachineless until Chicago. That’s not to say a few sink-and-soap sessions weren’t employed, but still…] Sometimes it’s the circumstances that make the shower: the excessively grimy night, the sore feet after hours of museum, the day stuck in downpour. Sometimes it’s the shower itself: shiny, clean, and new. Fixtures hitting from different angles. Precise heat adjustment. And most importantly, brilliant pressure.

            The main bathroom in Dan’s house had recently been redone, and it was the latter that started my Sunday off right.

            Some (like Dan’s mother) avoid hell by spending Sundays in church. But any true American knows the Lord’s Day is much holier than that. Church is nice and all, but there’s no way that eternal salvation is worth missing an afternoon of football and wings. Especially when yer a Boston Boy in Buffalo, the ralph is hosting the pats, and duff’s famous wings  are just a hispanic delivery boy away. Setting up shop in Dan’s living room and pulling up the menu on my spacephone, I ordered a pound of Wings (half hot, half honey garlic. Oy! Was I thirsty!) and watched my boys take the bills.

            [The effect sport can have on emotion never ceased to amaze me. At times (mostly when I don’t understand the sport) I’ve been sympathetic to the argument that its all stupid and bullshit. So much time and energy and money spent on meaningless, often violent nonsense. But the flip-side is just as compelling: a state of order and rules in a world of chaos - war with on death or “real” consequences.

            I was one of those bullshit sports-fans, only getting pulled in during fair weather and playoffs. But the way familiarity could comfort astounded me. In the spring of 2008 I was stranded by friends, left alone for five days in Morocco. Encased by the unfamiliar and having taken on much of my friends’ anxieties, I was utterly torn as to how to proceed. Alone, at night, in my hotel room was the first time I’d ever felt real, intense, true, palpable loneliness. Near tears, I turned on the tv and rolled myself a cigarette (the only time I’ve ever smoked one of those straight). As I opened my window and struck a match, CNN International reported the Red Sox had beaten the Yankees in the season opener. Had I been home, I would have muttered a “fuck yea” under my breath before changing the channel. But in such an alien state, I found myself quite literally fist-pumping for joy. That piece of tangible evidence; the reminder that there were things in this world I could relate to; the fact that I had a home, and that that home team won, was far sweeter than the Moroccan hash I had yet to smoke.]

            Continuing with the sports theme, we spent the rest of the afternoon shooting hoops and tossing a pig-skin in the street (getting a little high first, of course. Sensing a pattern here?).

            “Yo. I gotta do that insurance thing in a little bit. Wanna come for a ride?”

            “Sure.”

            “Are you rolling out tomorrow?”
            “Yeah. Crashing at Katie’s, and then head to Cleveland on Tuesday”

            “Word.”

            The “insurance thing” was officially Teresa’s gig, but she’d passed the work to Dan since he was closer to this one and could use the money. We hoped in the car and headed north towards Leweston. Typical commercial suburbia transformed into scenic ruralburbia (© Isaac Silver, 2012). It was the type of area I associated with red-state America: between forty-five minutes and three hours outside an urban center, a yard bigger than a lawn but smaller than a meadow, single-story modest and pretty homes, boasting American flags.

We found the house we were looking for just a few yards after a strong bend in the road. Seeing a toppled mailbox splintered at the post we sensed we were in the right spot. We parked across the street and walked up the long stone path to the house. Before we could ring the bell, a finalist for the Sophia Petrillo look-a-like contest opened the door.

            “You boys must be the Insurance people.”

            “Not quite. We’re from an associated firm, here to get your statement and document the incident. An official insurance agent will give you a call in a few days.”

            “Very well then. Let me show you what happened”

            She walkered her way down to the curb.

            “You have a lovely home” said Dan, noting the expansive back yard and the deep red brick of the house. “That rounded part, with all those bay windows: is that a living room?

            “It is! And thank you. My late husband designed the entire property, he was an architect.”

            As we reached the street she described how the car, having taken the curve too fast, careened off the road and onto her property, pointing out the skid-marks on the lawn, a dent in the telephone-pole, the downed mail-box. Dan snapped some pictures and scribbled some notes.

            “No one was hurt, correct? Just property damage?”

            “Thank heavens yes” she chirped.

           
              The sky gleamed brilliant pink and deep red as we road the Niagara Throughway towards Grand Island (“it’s that Buffalo smog homes. Same reason the Valley lights up like she do”). As we passed signs for the Falls I contemplated a suggestion: “Yo. Slight detour? Get a whiff of that famous borderline mist?” I’m sure Dannie would have obliged. But it was such old hat for him, and I’d been a few times before, and we were running a tad late on picking up Tim from their dad’s house. So I kept my mouth shut and stared at the sky.  In retrospect I should’ve talked -  would have been a brilliant five minutes.

            It was cool meeting Dan’s father. Gave me some insight into why Dan was who he was, especially after having met his moms.

            Back in Tonawanda with nothing much going on, we spent the evening back at Venessa’s: an indistinguishable experience from the night before.