I: 1/3/03

Work Diary, 1/03/03

One of the aunts who raised me - that is, one of the aunts who took
care of me after my mother died - is sick. Right now, she's in the
hospital. She won't answer my calls, but another aunt has assured me
that that's entirely on purpose. "She doesn't want visitors or phone
calls."

Fuck. I am two-thousand miles away. Sounds ominous, doesn't it? But
it's only two hours by plane.

This is the aunt whose first husband put a snake in her room to scare
her. Her current husband would rather die than scare her (both
figuratively and literally?my aunt's kind of big). To me, she's the
person in the room who'd see a snake and say, "What? You scared of
that?"

After she shot my father in the foot - which guaranteed his
disappearance for over a year - my aunt hung around our house like a
quieted banshee. She took us to the city pool; she placed us in the
cool confines of supermarket baskets while she shopped; she threatened
beatings that never came.

But she was young, and like all young people, she left. I wish she
hadn't. Her absence was filled by my father, who returned and filled
the void like a town at the mercy of a flood. Had my aunt known, I
don't think she would have left. I think she would have taken my
father's own gun and aimed a bit higher. Then she would have pulled the
trigger again.

While we grew, my aunt moved on with her own life. She got pregnant via
an Israeli doctor, and drank milk to make sure the baby was healthy (we
all hate milk, incidentally). She married her current husband, a
musician, who is so smart that it's not even worth playing "Jeopardy"
with him. She raised her kid, Kris, my cousin. She did a good job,
throughout.

Naturally, a paragraph of a person's life won't do. My aunt's life is
much more, because of course she is still alive. How easy it would be
to make an epitaph, to distill her worth into a few words. I can't do
it. Could you?

In a few hours, I will probably be on a plane to Houston. My
relationship is in a shambles; my job is not. I figure that the tripod
can exist on two solid feet.

I'd like to say that I know what I'm doing, but I'm doing my best to
make sure this is not all about me. If it were, I'd be collapsing at
inopportune times and wringing my hands in front of baggage clerks. I'm
not going to do that.

Why? Because I'm taking tomorrow off. Yes, I'm taking it off. Work is a
funny thing: If you're an automaton, they balk. If you're human, they
might listen. I'm banking on the latter.

Wish me luck. And if I'm fired, I hope that when I show up on your
doorstep, you offer me a bed and a drink. Preferably a Bloody Mary, by
the way. Also I like two pillows, or four, depending on the size of the
bed.

Thank you.