That's how I updated my Facebook status this morning, and I got several thumbs-ups and a "Nice" comment from friends. But I was serious. In the sense that it quite possibly could have been the other way around. Not just "unhappy" to be alive, but rather... not alive.Last night, I went to see Kat Edmonson at the Elephant Room. I heard her on the radio a week ago or so, and her voice reminded me so much of a singer friend of mine that I couldn't get her out of my head, kept Googling her, listening to songs, watching videos, etc, and noticed that she was playing the Elephant Room last night. I've always wanted to go to the Elephant Room.
I was supposed to go see my friend G do a dance performance in a park somewhere yesterday evening at 6:30, but I got out of improv class a little late, had to ride my bike home, needed a shower by the time I got here, and it was after 7:00 by the time I got done with that, so I blew it off. I was planning on meeting up at G's performance with D, a friend of G's with whom I've become pretty good friends, so we texted back and forth a couple of times through the day and decided to go see Kat together.
I got to his house at 9:30, picking up a bottle of red wine he requested on the way. He was sitting at the dining room table with two women friends from his college days in San Marcos, M and the other woman's name escapes me. We hung out for about an hour, D and M drinking the bottle of wine - their second of the night. I had a few sips from the glass he poured me, because I don't really drink red wine, because I figured I would have a beer at the club, and because I had taken a hit of weed before I left the house.
D and M dated about six years ago when they were in school. She recently contacted him and they've been "hanging out." She had planned to head back to San Antonio (where she lives) last night but both of her friends suggested that maybe she shouldn't drive back (in her condition, I assumed).
The woman I didn't know headed home, D went to change, M and I talked briefly, then she disappeared and decided to go with us. While she changed clothes, D came back out and asked if I minded; of course, I didn't. Unrelated to that exchange, he left the room then came back and put his arms around me from behind and said, "I know we don't know each other very well, but I know I love you." Maybe he was loosened up from the wine he'd been drinking, but it felt sincere. I told him it was nice to hear it, and that was about it of the exchange.
I had thought about asking D to drive because he drives his dad's comfy car, but since there were three of us, it didn't even come up, because my truck doesn't seat three very comfortably. D also has cool electronic music, so we were able to enjoy his jams on his dad's fancy sound system. It was nice; I was buzzed, feeling good, and looking forward to some good jazz singing and playing.
We had to wait a little while because Kat is from Austin and the Elephant Room was packed. When we got in, we had to stand in an aisle. D went to the bathroom and M moved to a spot next to the bar; I stayed where I was. Besides sounding vaguely like my friend when singing a pop song, Kat has a voice like Billie Holliday or somebody like that when she sings standards (or turned-standards, like The Police's "Tea in the Sahara" for example). She was singing in front of a tight quintet led by a piano player, anchored by drums and upright bass, and acceoompanied by trombone and trumpet, with a special guest saxophonist.
M and D were talking some, and talking to a couple sitting on barstools behind them a bit, but I ignored them. I was far enough away from them to do so, rocking in my shoes, eyes half shut, grooving. We were there till the end, we stayed through two breaks. During the first break, several audience members left. I saw some seats next to the stage and told D; he said, "Let's go!" but by the time I got there, there were only two seats left, and they didn't follow me all the way, turned and went back to their place at the bar. I couldn't stand forever, my knees were already starting to hurt, so I sat and enjoyed the second set from there.
During the next break, we were able to get in a better position, a table with three seats close to the front. We sat and talked, and that's when I pissed M off. She and D had been talking when we first got there and the couple on the barstools said, "We can hear you over the music, can you please be quiet?" (Or maybe they said "shut up," as I heard the story.) M got pissy; D got cocky. M's point (to me) was that she has to do what other people tell her to do all week long, the weekend is hers, she doesn't want to be told what to do during her weekend. The guy asked them to move if they wanted to talk, and D said, "If you have a problem with us talking, you should move." I was glad I wasn't present. (D doesn't strike me as being this kind of a guy, so I am led to believe it had something to do with being with a woman he was having sex with...)
M made her point for a while, and obviously wanted me to concur, but I just couldn't. I said that I probably would have asked them to be quiet, too. She said it would be different if she were at the symphony and there were signs around that said "No Talking." I told her that there aren't signs at the symphony, that it is just kind of understood that there is no talking in a performance of any kind. She pressed her point some more but I just couldn't bring myself to agree with her - at one point I offered, "The best way to keep people from telling you what to do is to be quiet!" I was trying to be light, but it was the breaking point for her. She went back to her place at the bar. And of course D went too. I spent most of the next set happily alone with my beer.
D spent some of his time trying to get M to come and sit with "us" at the table but she refused; I wasn't being supportive of her and was just as bad as the people who were trying to tell her what to do. I don't know how much D and M drank, but I saw her with a martini glass in front of her a couple of times, and he had pints of his beer in front of him. At the end of the night, I sampled her beer because she insisted (it was a different kind than what D and I were drinking), and because I was trying to make nice with her.
After the show ended, D went to the bathroom and sort of asked us to "talk." I made an attempt. M started in on her same story so I just dutifully shook my head and didn't respond too much otherwise.
It was suddenly 2:00 a.m. I know I had listened to a lot of great music, but didn't realize we'd been there three hours. We headed home. M sat in the front seat (I had sat up there on the way to the show, but took the back seat before she got to the car to show some sort of "respect"). It was misting out, D was driving a bit aggressively, or "cool" is probably a better description; it didn't strike me that he was driving drunk, just kind of like he normally does. We got on MoPac - which has a 70 mph speed limit. A car in the fast lane wasn't going quite that; D got close to the bumper, the car changed lanes, and D hit the gas and we flew down the wet road.
I thought of that billboard that insists on passengers speaking up against aggressive drivers. But that billboard annoys me. If you're in a car with an aggressive driver, particularly a drunk one, making a stink about the way they're driving seems to be a good way to cause a problem. I remained quiet. I knew D had had more to drink than me, but I don't drink very much; people have different saturation levels.
We exited MoPac at a higher speed than I thought was necessary. I braced myself and sunk my mind into the loud techno music playing. At the end of the exit ramp, D hung a right, fishtailed over-corrected - just like they say you do - and we spun around 270° so that we were facing the wrong direction on the two lanes we were in, at the same time continuing a sideways slide across the lanes into the oncoming traffic, had there been any, hitting the curbed median first with the back tire. In my mind, the sound brought the image of the tire and wheel being forced sideways under the car.
There was no oncoming traffic. There was no traffic at all, fortunately. It would have been a horrible mess had there been. I also thought later that there could easily have been a bicyclist on the road, or a pedestrian, even a dog or raccoon would have been a horrible addition to the scene. All of these thoughts keep flashing in my mind, and I am only left with gratitude for life.
After a brief moment of silence (D turned off the music), he apologized then drove back over the median, turned us in the proper direction and continued on at the speed limit, a raucous sound coming from the back tire. M leaned farther out her window than I thought was wise, to see where the racket was coming from. I tried to unclench my fists and jaw.
When D slowed, the noise got worse. We had a number of turns to get into the subdivision where his house is; he seemed determined to not slow down at any of them, then he said, "God! It's like the car doesn't even want to stop!" I was very, very sober, all the while trying to figure out if I would remember how to get back to my truck on foot, because if we stalled out or for any reason didn't make it all the way there in D's dad's comfy car, that was what I planned on doing.
As we pulled along the curb across the street from his address, there was the sound of glass shattering, like I imagine a champagne bottle hitting the bow of a ship might sound. But it wasn't glass. It was metal, two rounded pieces about a half-inch thick, one piece about six inches long, the other about three. It was the shattered rear brake rotor falling to the pavement when we stopped. I picked a piece up but could only hold it for a few seconds because it was very hot.
D was mumbling to himself saying "normalized" things like, "I guess I'll be making a trip to the brake store soon." I hugged him goodnight; we searched M out to say goodnight. She was hiding on the front porch behind a shrub. I told her to take care. She hugged me tentatively and said something like, "It's been real..."
I drove home, my head reeling with thoughts that I could have died. In that vein, I didn't hesitate even a moment to talk myself out of driving through Mrs. Johnson's, the Indian-owned late night donut shop, where they always give you one while you wait . I ate the freebie and another on the way home, then wrote "HELP YOUR SELF" on top of the box and left it on the kitchen counter.
S wasn't home yet. It was 3:00 a.m. He had gone to the bar. At 6:00 a.m. I awoke from a weird dream about D to the sound of the windchimes out of the bathroom window clanging like they had been run into. I could see under my door that S's bedroom light was still on and decided it was him, having forgotten his house key, trying to find an unlatched screen on an open window to climb through, even though I doubt he would never do such a thing. It didn't even occur to me that someone might be trying to break in; I had already had one near-death experience, I guess I figured I wasn't up for another so soon.
I looked out the bathroom window but saw nothing, closed the bathroom door and went back to sleep. At 11:00 I woke up, happy to be alive, happy to see S's light off. Later in the day, I noticed that the bush under the windchime had grown long enough that the wind sail had become caught, the striker was pulled outside of the metal pipes, and when the wind was strong (as it was all day) the pipes hit the striker the same way they had early that morning. I took wire cutters out and trimmed the bush.
D texted me this morning:
I was supposed to go see my friend G do a dance performance in a park somewhere yesterday evening at 6:30, but I got out of improv class a little late, had to ride my bike home, needed a shower by the time I got here, and it was after 7:00 by the time I got done with that, so I blew it off. I was planning on meeting up at G's performance with D, a friend of G's with whom I've become pretty good friends, so we texted back and forth a couple of times through the day and decided to go see Kat together.
I got to his house at 9:30, picking up a bottle of red wine he requested on the way. He was sitting at the dining room table with two women friends from his college days in San Marcos, M and the other woman's name escapes me. We hung out for about an hour, D and M drinking the bottle of wine - their second of the night. I had a few sips from the glass he poured me, because I don't really drink red wine, because I figured I would have a beer at the club, and because I had taken a hit of weed before I left the house.
D and M dated about six years ago when they were in school. She recently contacted him and they've been "hanging out." She had planned to head back to San Antonio (where she lives) last night but both of her friends suggested that maybe she shouldn't drive back (in her condition, I assumed).
The woman I didn't know headed home, D went to change, M and I talked briefly, then she disappeared and decided to go with us. While she changed clothes, D came back out and asked if I minded; of course, I didn't. Unrelated to that exchange, he left the room then came back and put his arms around me from behind and said, "I know we don't know each other very well, but I know I love you." Maybe he was loosened up from the wine he'd been drinking, but it felt sincere. I told him it was nice to hear it, and that was about it of the exchange.
I had thought about asking D to drive because he drives his dad's comfy car, but since there were three of us, it didn't even come up, because my truck doesn't seat three very comfortably. D also has cool electronic music, so we were able to enjoy his jams on his dad's fancy sound system. It was nice; I was buzzed, feeling good, and looking forward to some good jazz singing and playing.
We had to wait a little while because Kat is from Austin and the Elephant Room was packed. When we got in, we had to stand in an aisle. D went to the bathroom and M moved to a spot next to the bar; I stayed where I was. Besides sounding vaguely like my friend when singing a pop song, Kat has a voice like Billie Holliday or somebody like that when she sings standards (or turned-standards, like The Police's "Tea in the Sahara" for example). She was singing in front of a tight quintet led by a piano player, anchored by drums and upright bass, and acceoompanied by trombone and trumpet, with a special guest saxophonist.
M and D were talking some, and talking to a couple sitting on barstools behind them a bit, but I ignored them. I was far enough away from them to do so, rocking in my shoes, eyes half shut, grooving. We were there till the end, we stayed through two breaks. During the first break, several audience members left. I saw some seats next to the stage and told D; he said, "Let's go!" but by the time I got there, there were only two seats left, and they didn't follow me all the way, turned and went back to their place at the bar. I couldn't stand forever, my knees were already starting to hurt, so I sat and enjoyed the second set from there.
During the next break, we were able to get in a better position, a table with three seats close to the front. We sat and talked, and that's when I pissed M off. She and D had been talking when we first got there and the couple on the barstools said, "We can hear you over the music, can you please be quiet?" (Or maybe they said "shut up," as I heard the story.) M got pissy; D got cocky. M's point (to me) was that she has to do what other people tell her to do all week long, the weekend is hers, she doesn't want to be told what to do during her weekend. The guy asked them to move if they wanted to talk, and D said, "If you have a problem with us talking, you should move." I was glad I wasn't present. (D doesn't strike me as being this kind of a guy, so I am led to believe it had something to do with being with a woman he was having sex with...)
M made her point for a while, and obviously wanted me to concur, but I just couldn't. I said that I probably would have asked them to be quiet, too. She said it would be different if she were at the symphony and there were signs around that said "No Talking." I told her that there aren't signs at the symphony, that it is just kind of understood that there is no talking in a performance of any kind. She pressed her point some more but I just couldn't bring myself to agree with her - at one point I offered, "The best way to keep people from telling you what to do is to be quiet!" I was trying to be light, but it was the breaking point for her. She went back to her place at the bar. And of course D went too. I spent most of the next set happily alone with my beer.
D spent some of his time trying to get M to come and sit with "us" at the table but she refused; I wasn't being supportive of her and was just as bad as the people who were trying to tell her what to do. I don't know how much D and M drank, but I saw her with a martini glass in front of her a couple of times, and he had pints of his beer in front of him. At the end of the night, I sampled her beer because she insisted (it was a different kind than what D and I were drinking), and because I was trying to make nice with her.
After the show ended, D went to the bathroom and sort of asked us to "talk." I made an attempt. M started in on her same story so I just dutifully shook my head and didn't respond too much otherwise.
It was suddenly 2:00 a.m. I know I had listened to a lot of great music, but didn't realize we'd been there three hours. We headed home. M sat in the front seat (I had sat up there on the way to the show, but took the back seat before she got to the car to show some sort of "respect"). It was misting out, D was driving a bit aggressively, or "cool" is probably a better description; it didn't strike me that he was driving drunk, just kind of like he normally does. We got on MoPac - which has a 70 mph speed limit. A car in the fast lane wasn't going quite that; D got close to the bumper, the car changed lanes, and D hit the gas and we flew down the wet road.
I thought of that billboard that insists on passengers speaking up against aggressive drivers. But that billboard annoys me. If you're in a car with an aggressive driver, particularly a drunk one, making a stink about the way they're driving seems to be a good way to cause a problem. I remained quiet. I knew D had had more to drink than me, but I don't drink very much; people have different saturation levels.
We exited MoPac at a higher speed than I thought was necessary. I braced myself and sunk my mind into the loud techno music playing. At the end of the exit ramp, D hung a right, fishtailed over-corrected - just like they say you do - and we spun around 270° so that we were facing the wrong direction on the two lanes we were in, at the same time continuing a sideways slide across the lanes into the oncoming traffic, had there been any, hitting the curbed median first with the back tire. In my mind, the sound brought the image of the tire and wheel being forced sideways under the car.
There was no oncoming traffic. There was no traffic at all, fortunately. It would have been a horrible mess had there been. I also thought later that there could easily have been a bicyclist on the road, or a pedestrian, even a dog or raccoon would have been a horrible addition to the scene. All of these thoughts keep flashing in my mind, and I am only left with gratitude for life.
After a brief moment of silence (D turned off the music), he apologized then drove back over the median, turned us in the proper direction and continued on at the speed limit, a raucous sound coming from the back tire. M leaned farther out her window than I thought was wise, to see where the racket was coming from. I tried to unclench my fists and jaw.
When D slowed, the noise got worse. We had a number of turns to get into the subdivision where his house is; he seemed determined to not slow down at any of them, then he said, "God! It's like the car doesn't even want to stop!" I was very, very sober, all the while trying to figure out if I would remember how to get back to my truck on foot, because if we stalled out or for any reason didn't make it all the way there in D's dad's comfy car, that was what I planned on doing.
As we pulled along the curb across the street from his address, there was the sound of glass shattering, like I imagine a champagne bottle hitting the bow of a ship might sound. But it wasn't glass. It was metal, two rounded pieces about a half-inch thick, one piece about six inches long, the other about three. It was the shattered rear brake rotor falling to the pavement when we stopped. I picked a piece up but could only hold it for a few seconds because it was very hot.
D was mumbling to himself saying "normalized" things like, "I guess I'll be making a trip to the brake store soon." I hugged him goodnight; we searched M out to say goodnight. She was hiding on the front porch behind a shrub. I told her to take care. She hugged me tentatively and said something like, "It's been real..."
I drove home, my head reeling with thoughts that I could have died. In that vein, I didn't hesitate even a moment to talk myself out of driving through Mrs. Johnson's, the Indian-owned late night donut shop, where they always give you one while you wait . I ate the freebie and another on the way home, then wrote "HELP YOUR SELF" on top of the box and left it on the kitchen counter.
S wasn't home yet. It was 3:00 a.m. He had gone to the bar. At 6:00 a.m. I awoke from a weird dream about D to the sound of the windchimes out of the bathroom window clanging like they had been run into. I could see under my door that S's bedroom light was still on and decided it was him, having forgotten his house key, trying to find an unlatched screen on an open window to climb through, even though I doubt he would never do such a thing. It didn't even occur to me that someone might be trying to break in; I had already had one near-death experience, I guess I figured I wasn't up for another so soon.
I looked out the bathroom window but saw nothing, closed the bathroom door and went back to sleep. At 11:00 I woke up, happy to be alive, happy to see S's light off. Later in the day, I noticed that the bush under the windchime had grown long enough that the wind sail had become caught, the striker was pulled outside of the metal pipes, and when the wind was strong (as it was all day) the pipes hit the striker the same way they had early that morning. I took wire cutters out and trimmed the bush.
D texted me this morning:
Wow! A little dramatic last night. Sorry about the intensity!!
I didn't know how to respond. S seemed to think I should tell him it was okay or that it was "no problem." But I wasn't sure I felt that it was okay or that I didn't have a problem. Not that I blamed him totally; I had just as much responsibility, if not more, for my well-being. I value his friendship, but I've been having a lot of consternation about friends lately.
Finally, I came up with this:
Finally, I came up with this:
Let me know if you need a ride anywhere. Peace.
I haven't heard back from him yet.
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