Chapter 3 - Peeking through Kashmir’s Keyhole

So why else would this 45 year old lunatic named Ron (rhymes with cracked pecan) be clutching a bottle of rose wine in my mitt, the other fingering my last Camel, hoping Mr. Bik has one last light in his reservoir, the arrowhead in my pocket gouging my thigh as I sit down on Kashmir’s steps, proud of the double-breasted suit coat I’m wearing from 20 years ago (don’t fashions tend to cycle?), unless I’d been truly smitten?  Since childhood.

I who am a failure at most endeavors have been buzzing my blind date’s doorbell.  I who have nothing have been tapping at her door.  I who have received the slap-on label narcissistic prick from my soon to be EXwife am mucking in rivers over my head.  I who am a kayaker and an archer feel I must have already shot my boat full of arrows.  Aren’t women famous for changing their switchback minds?

Is my lady thinking I’m just another Otis, who screwed his plantation negro,–promised her marriage and vacations in Israel, but then realized, yes!, his dragon from inside her Skokie mansion would strip him of his last pair of silk drawers?

Or has Kashmir’s son Roger, whom she said is now a flame-carrying black Muslim, returned from college, and wailed, “Ma, don’t tell me you’re about to date another white devil!”

Maybe I’m feeling low as a night crawler trying to tie the strings in his hiking boot because of my Big Affliction.  Should I have kept that doctor’s appointment Dragon made for me, before she kicked me off HER patio?

Sitting on that stoop, fat ass feeling the cool of the concrete, hands cradling my lead head, I’m wondering if I haven’t gone as Lonny Tunes as my Aunt Myrtle, who drove her nifty coop 2-seater all the way to the golden shores of California, seeking her lost Jim. I imagine her spiraling up the Rockies, singing, “Love is the most important thing there is.”

But look what happened to Myrtle #1.  Last time I visited #2 in Minneapolis, she didn’t recognize her favorite nephew.  Should I have rung her doorbell with the abalone shell pressed to my ear? Click to continue »