I am driving. I’m on a quest. I need a new tea pan, and it’s gotta cost less than $3.39, which is all the money I’ve got in the world until the bank processes my paycheck, an activity for which they have no apparent skill or enthusiasm.
I’ve been to the grocery. They sell pie tins and cookie sheets, but no pans. I’ve been to the dollar store. They sell coffee makers and tea pots, but no pans. Now I’m driving West, heading for a store I know nothing about, on the advice of my mother, who is wise in the way of such things.
I’m getting more and more absent-minded as I get older. I will put on water to boil for tea. It takes only a couple of minutes, I shouldn’t even wander off, really, but a watched pot never boils and so a-wanderin' I go. I have a smoke on the porch and soak up the sun. I sit on the couch and put on a movie. I check my e-mail, or a story comes to me and I begin to write. Next thing I know, it’s an hour later and there are bad smells and ominous crackling noises coming from the kitchen.
I make at least two pitchers of tea per day, and sometimes as many as four. It’s the only caffeine and sugar I get in my diet. A functioning tea pan is a necessity. So I’m broke, but I’m out looking for a tea pan. As noted, there aren’t that many places downtown that sell pots and pans, but I finally reach the Odd Lots or Big Lots or what-the-fuck-ever it is out on 14th Street West.
It’s hard to get into the lot, actually. Evidently Congress has declared today “National Rednecks Idling in Beat-Up Cars on the Side of the Road Day.” They are everywhere, just sitting there, and they are blocking at least two entrances. But I finally manage it on account of my vast skills and perseverance.
They have appropriate pans, in sets of three, for six dollars. Too much for me, but as I cast about the store I discover that someone has already broken up a set. I grab one, and after much discussion and sidelong, accusing glances, the cashier lets me have it for two bucks and tax. $2.12. I give her exact change and have money left over for a fruit juice at work tomorrow. I am triumphant.
I arrive home to discover that a local garage band is committing a violent crime of a quasi-musical nature in my little alley. But I’ve got a soft spot for garage bands, and their sloppy exuberance suits the ambience of 4½ Alley, and it’s okay. I walk into my apartment, put on Lucinda Williams’ Essence, and get out the sugar. The new pan is so beautiful that I am hesitant to use it. I feel like I should hang it on the wall above my bed and keep it shiny and clean and lovely forever. I show it off to Amy instead, and she pretends she's interested for my sake:
Isn't it beautiful?
Yes, it's very beautiful.
How beautiful?
Ohh...just really very beautiful. Very beautiful indeed.
It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, isn't it?
Umm...okay. She is doubtful, but at my crestfallen look, she reconsiders. Well, yeah, I guess. She nods her head decisively. It sure is.
Oh, thank you, sweetheart, and I smile a big goofy smile, and she smiles back tolerantly.
I put the water on to boil. The urge to write this story is tugging at me, but I do not leave the stove. I hover over it, and Lucinda and I sing of sofa covers and books ‘bout being saved, tables no one eats on and pianos no one plays, and think that it sure would be silly not to use my pretty little brand-new two-pint saucepan.
I don’t take my eyes off of it. And you know what? It boils anyway. And the tea is sooooo good.
