Birthday Flowers

Ah, hospitals.

I don’t much care for hospitals. I don’t suppose anyone does. I couldn’t say that I dislike them more than most folks, ‘cause I can’t read minds, but my dislike of them is pretty profound, if uninformed. I never get sick myself, you see; I have arthritis in my knees, and I occasionally get major hangovers, but outside of that I’m perfectly healthy and always have been.

What this means is that not only do I dislike hospitals, I also have a very limited experience of them, and don’t really understand how they operate. So, it was with some trepidation that, after I got off work last night, I walked down to St. Mary’s for visiting hours.

The last time I was in a hospital was when Rhonda, my former lover, had her surgery several years ago. The surgery lasted six hours, and I was a little bit frantic, constantly running out to smoke and then running back in and questioning staff members to make sure nothing had happened while I was outside.

When the surgery was done, some doctor or nurse or hospital employee of some kind came out and told me, “She’s fine, and we’re getting ready to move her up to room 819,” or whatever the room number was; I don’t remember. Anyway, he said I could go up and wait for her there. So I did, of course. And waited. And waited.

After an hour or a little more, I decided “Fuck this.” I was starting to think they’d done something with her, like I had fallen into a Robin Cook novel or something. So I thought, "Well, I’ll just search the hospital for her, then." And I did; I started where I’d last seen her and turned the hospital upside-down, basically, and I eventually found her after causing a great deal of consternation. Also, I threatened to take one of the orderlies outside and kick his ass because I didn’t like the way he was maneuvering her little trolley-bed thing. I woulda done it, too. He had a bad attitude.

I had a lot of trouble with the hospital staff over the course of Rhonda’s stay, actually. She’s a very sweet girl, and I’m sure the staff grew fond of her while she was there, but I would still bet they were glad when she left, ‘cause it meant I was going, too.

Anyway, so yeah, me and hospitals have a short but bitter history. I am alarmed by them; the obsessive cleanliness that comes alongside an inexplicable and unwholesome smell, the horrible-looking food on those mobile bookcases, the fact that they’re always cold make me a little bit uneasy, a feeling to which my natural reaction is extreme bitchiness. This, combined with the lack of trust I’m willing to place in some nobody (degree or not, if I don’t know you and believe in you, you’re a nobody) who is “caring for” someone I love, and the lack of interest I have in hiding this lack of trust, combine to make me a very difficult hospital visitor.

I reflected on all this as I started the long walk yesterday. But just as I began, the sun came out and it got warmer, and I thought of the excellent person I was going to see, and my mood lightened. I was still preoccupied, but a bit less…I don’t know. Angsty. Whatever.

I sang to myself, as I do when I walk; and I stopped by Kroger’s to buy a rose to bring along as a present. The song I was singing to myself as I stood in line to pay for the flower was Concrete Blonde’s “Happy Birthday”:

Smoking out the window
Feeling far away
News on the radio
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday

The woman in front of me in line noticed this and, being friendly, asked, “So, who’s the lucky birthday girl?”

This, of course, is a perfectly logical question. In fact, it’s kind of a Sherlock Holmesian bit of deduction. I’m buying nothing except a single flower and singing a song in which the words “Happy Birthday” figure prominently. It makes sense that she’d assume that I was buying a birthday flower for someone, and it would be reasonable to assume that that person was a woman (though I love roses myself, no one ever buys them for me...I guess men aren't supposed to like flowers).

Unfortunately, my mind wasn’t working that way yesterday. I wasn’t paying attention to the song I was singing; it emerged randomly from my subconscious, and might as well have been “Honky Tonk Women” or “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” which I’d like to see how she would have reacted to those.

So I stared at her in confusion for a second, and then said something along the lines of “What?”

“Who,” she repeated slowly, “is the pretty girl getting the birthday flower?”

I still had no idea what she was talking about. Once my mind heads down a particular path, it’s kinda hard for me to make it change directions, and the significance of the song still had not impressed itself upon me. But at least she’d explained that she was talking about the flower. And one thing I definitely knew was who the flower was for.

“No, there’s no pretty girl. Well, I mean, there is…a very beautiful girl, in fact, but it isn’t her birthday. It’s nobody’s birthday. Well, nobody important, anyway. I mean, as far as I know. Tomorrow,” I hit on this happy but essentially unrelated fact for reasons that are not clear to me, “tomorrow is Whit’s birthday. But I don’t actually know her. I mean, I do, but we’ve never met. Do you know her?” She looked at me as if the flower was growing out of my forehead rather than resting in my hand. “Well, whose birthday,” I asked her, “is it supposed to be?”

“How should I know?” By this time, I think, she was sorry she’d said anything. “You’re the one buying a flower and saying ‘Happy Birthday’ over and over.”

“Oh, it’s nobody’s birthday. I just like that song.”

And then she walked away. Rather more rapidly than one would expect, and occasionally glancing over her shoulder at me.

And I, very happy at having (however accidentally) sown a little more confusion in the world, paid for my flower and went on towards the hospital.

The rose and I made friends over the remainder of the journey. It rode in my bag, but I had its head poking out so it could breathe, and it bobbed along next to me, just in my line of sight. I discovered, while walking, that rather than singing, or talking to myself, which are the ways I usually pass the time on a long walk, I was talking to the flower itself. Well, and answering for it, because flowers, you know, they don’t actually talk.

Also, the sex of the flower changed while we walked. When I’d first walked into the Kroger flower department, I’d just grabbed the first single long-stemmed red rose I’d seen. But then I’d glanced down and noticed this far more lovely rose. “Oh, no, pretty girl,” I said to it, “I like you much better,” and put the first one back to grab the one I ended up buying. But as we walked I found myself referring to the rose as “Little Brother” and “My Clever Boy.” I don’t know what the Freudian significance of that is.

What I do know is this: once I can afford it, I’m gonna start buying myself a fresh long-stemmed red rose every morning, to carry around poking its little head out of the top of my bag every day. I really liked the way it looked while we were walking together yesterday. Besides, it’s good company and stops me talking to myself, which, let’s be honest, I shouldn’t do as much of as I actually do.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, except for the homeless guy who seemed to want to make friends, possibly on the basis of the relationship I’d struck up with the rose. He followed me from Third Avenue to Fifth Avenue and into Kroger’s, where I thought I’d lost him, but he picked me back up outside, followed me back to Third Avenue ‘til about…27th or 28th Street, probably. Then he finally just kinda peeled off on his own. He hadn’t said a word. It was a good relationship, really, ‘cause I didn’t have to give him a cigarette. And, as I’ve said many times, the problem with this town is that everybody smokes but no one except me ever actually BUYS cigarettes.

The hospital grounds have many conflicting and misleading signs, and after walking an hour and a half to get there I wasn’t happy about being led on a wild goose chase trying to find the right door. But the staff was actually surprisingly kind and helpful, and maybe I’ll have to revise my opinion of these people, or at least the ones at St. Mary’s. And my visit was wonderful; she loved my rose, and she loved the books I brought her to read to pass the time, and she loves me too, and I made her happy. So, it was a good trip, and a beautiful night, and I’m still feeling great joy and peace from it. Love to all, and to one in particular.

Well and Widely Loved

Well, went out last night. Sarah graduated yesterday, and there was a bit of a day-long celebration, apparently, though I only showed up for the end of it. Heather was in town as well, and I was very very excited.

He took in the four a.m. show at the Clark
"Excitable boy," they all said
And he bit the usherette's leg in the dark
"Excitable boy," they all said
"Well, he's just an excitable boy"

So, I saw Heather at the Study Center while I was writing yesterday, and she promised to call later to tell me where and when the shindiggin' was goin' on, and I was, as I say, excited. So I went home and took a shower and put on the CDs I made for her and drank wine (I started drinking at noon yesterday, but metered it carefully so that I never actually got drunk) and danced around my apartment like a mad fool. I called it a warmup, 'cause I figured we were going to the Stonewall, and I'd be tipsy and do a little dancing and convince a few fellas to buy my drinks. But, as it happened, the call didn't come 'til a little before 1AM. I stopped drinking at about 11:30, talked to Amy for an hour or so, and then we decided to just go to bed (separately, I mean; we had been talking on the phone) and read and try to fall asleep. So when the call came, I was a little surpirsed, and almost completely sobered up, and in no condition any longer for dancing. Oh, well.
It's good to already be drunk before you get to the Stonewall, because the place is outrageously expensive. I mean, it's okay that some bars charge a ridiculous cover, and it's okay that some bars overcharge for their drinks, but they should never be the same bars. If I have to pay $5 to get in, and then you tell me that a glass of rum is $8 and a bottle of beer is $3, I'm gonna be pissed. Memo to self: next time, bring a secreted bottle of rum along with.

More so than when I started
I feel older and this bottle
Is the place I choose to hide
And when I looked out from my bottle
And I saw you standin' by
I invited you inside
If the bottle makes you happy, so could I

I wasn't too worried about it, because I've gotten a lot of drinks bought for me over the years at gay bars. But I must be losin' it, must be gettin' old, because last night only one guy hit on me, and he didn't get up the nerve 'til after last call. I was polite to him generally, but I did call him out on this.
"Okay, rule number one when picking someone up in a bar: The very first thing you ask is, 'Can I buy you a drink?'"
That's actually rule number two, though. Rule number one is, don't approach someone if you're too drunk to speak clearly unless that person is also blind drunk and desperate to get laid. You don't wanna make a bad first impression, and there's no way to make a good first impression under those circumstances. This guy was stupid drunk, and that is an absolute turn-off. When someone you already know and love gets drunk, that can be fun; at the very least, it inspires you to want to take care of them. When it's someone you don't know, you just want them to move as far away from you as possible. Even if I wasn't madly and paralyzingly in love with someone else, that guy would have no chance with me (well, and also, he just wasn't that attractive, and I'm shallow). I did give him my number (mostly just to get him to go away) so that I can scold him today when he's sober enough to understand what I'm saying. He blew it. But, you learn something new every day. This will be his lesson. I hope it makes him a better person.
Even without being the belle of the ball I had a good time, though. Tracy, Sarah's girlfriend, is a wonderful dancer, or at least I enjoyed watching her dance very much. And she and I have never really talked much, so it was nice to have conversation with her. Sarah and I decided that we have not talked enough in the time we've known each other. I don't know how shy she is, but when I have a conversation with someone they're gonna have to do most of the heavy lifting; I let other people carry the talk. Sarah is like that, too, I guess, and so I haven't been as close to Sarah as I would have liked to have been. But maybe after a lovely evening I'll be able to spend more time with Sarah and Tracy before they leave, and we can make up for lost time.
The consensus, by the end of the evening, was that Heather and Sarah loved me and Tracy thought I was cool but would have to know me better before she'd commit, which, I can dig it. And Heather let me hold her in the alley behind the club for a long, long time, and that felt wonderful. More than wonderful, really, and I felt well and widely loved.

There was love all around, but I never heard it singing
No, I never heard it at all, 'til there was...the Stonewall?

Hmmm, that doesn't look right. I kinda regret having written that now. It's a little bit creepy. But, what's done is done. And at least I've got a fond, glowing memory of the place now.
Anyway, yes, we had a good time. I only bought one beer, but I finished Heather's last one and had a bit of Schnapps in the parking lot (or what passes for a parking lot at the Stonewall), and we stopped at my place after so I could grab a bottle of wine, and then we set out to go to Sarah's house. But the line at Taco Bell was stupid (though I did finally get to try Heather's much-talked-about Fiesta Potatoes) and then we got caught behind an endless freight train, and by that time Sarah and Tracy were passed out all over each other in the backseat. So I had them drop me on campus and I walked home, finishing the wine on the way and singing to myself very loudly.
Mostly I sang Throwing Muses:

Dancing with scissors our bones full of wishes
We wait for our plans to come true
Why do I like you? 'cause I do
Why do I like you? 'cause I'd kill to be you
Sweet nothing, sweet dream, serene

It was the first completely student-free night on campus, and so I could sing loud and not worry about anyone calling MUPD. And my heart was full of love and joy and music, and I was getting drunk again, too. It was a very good ending to a wonderful evening.
So, this is a big thanks to Heather, Sarah, and Tracy for the best graduation night ever. Much love to all three of you. Hope to see you again soon.

My Brain Works Funny

Sometimes, I just really don't understand myself. I mean, I don't understand the method by which my brain operates (or commits malpractice). This fact both entertains and disturbs me.

It disturbs me because I'm just about the most introspective person I know. I am constantly examining my motives and thoughts and trying to figure out why I do and feel the things I do. Frankly, I find myself a more interesting field of study than most I've run across. So, after year upon year of doing that, it doesn't seem to me that there should be anything about myself that I don't know, no feelings that I can't identify or express in words. I mean, I'm not stupid, and it isn't as though I haven't put any effort into this. When something's going on in my brain that doesn't make sense, at least to me, I feel like I'm out of phase with myself, that I've made some obscure but colossal error.

But it's entertaining, too. Because the things that puzzle me about myself tend to be kinda goofy. I mean, it isn't like I looked around the other day and discovered I was a serial murderer or anything. I just have these ideas that make no sense and don't seem to come from anywhere, and they sometimes make for lovely surprises.

Such was the case today. I went home very briefly, and I could hear a hose running as I came 'round the house to get to my apartment. I was inside for about twenty minutes and then came out to head back to work. The hose was still going, but this time I saw it. It was tangled into the fence on the right side of the alley, spraying water onto a spot on the building. I didn't see it when I came in, and I can't absolutely swear that it wasn't actually being used when I'd passed before, but the immediate impression on me was that it had been there, spraying the house, for at least half an hour.

Now, the thoughts in my head usually don't just float around ethearally (is that a word?), or flash up like subtitles on a movie screen behind my eyes. They tend to come in a kind of weird, stilted Socratic dialog; and when I'm alone, as I was today, they don't stay in my head. I actually have a discussion with myself. This was the discussion that took place as I stood on my porch looking at the hose spraying on the house:

Me 1: Look, someone's watering the building. I wonder why?
Me 2: Well, the buildings back here do need a good power-spraying. [I live in 41/2 Alley, and the buildings are pretty dingy]. But why a garden hose? And why just spray that one spot endlessly?
Me 1: You misunderstand me. I didn't say they were washing the building or spraying the building, I said they're watering the building. They want it to grow.
Me 2: Ah, that makes more sense. But who would want the building to grow? It's pretty cramped back here already. Getting the mail is a nightmare.
Me 1: Huey [the landlord] would.
Me 2: Oh, so it could grow new rooms he could let out?
Me 1: Yeah. Or, more likely, the existing apartments would just get roomier.
Me 2: That would be nice. We could use some more room.
Me 1: Of course we could, but if the apartments get bigger, he'll be able to charge more rent for them.
Me 2: Oh, no, we couldn't afford a rent increase.
Me 1: True enough. Well, only one thing to do, then.

And I stepped across the alley and turned the hose off, thus saving myself and my poverty-stricken neighbors the anguish of a rent increase. Happy and satisfied, I then walked on to work. It didn't occur to me until I was halfway there that, first, that conversation made absolutely no sense at all (although while I was having it, it seemed perfectly straightforward), and two, I'd had it out loud. If any of the neighbors had their windows open, I wonder what they thought. Not that I care, but I wonder.

Anyway, maybe this was some responsible subconscious impulse to stop someone wasting water. I'd like to think so. That's noble in a very small way. But, boy, the thought sure took a strange and circuitous path between impulse and deed, didn't it?

Any shrinks out there? Anyone have any thoughts?