Fresh idiots

I'm a little low lately, on whatever gumption it takes to write again what I always write — observations of idiots on the bus, at the diner, etc.

A general blueness engulfs me. It happens to all of us, I've been told — the simple realization that everything's meaningless, that we're just killing time until time kills us. "Nothing really matters, anyone can see..."

Mostly, though, I haven't written because my inspiration comes from seeing idiots while I'm out in the world — but I never leave home any more.

Unemployed and not really looking for work, I live life in my recliner, surfing the web or reading a book or watching a movie, then falling asleep in my recliner. Waking again, I surf the web or read more of that book or watch another movie. 

Last Saturday's bi-weekly breakfast with the family was my first excursion out-of-doors since the previous bi-weekly breakfast, and my farthest walk since Saturday was to the dumpster with a bag of trash.

Can't write about the idiots gnawing on my nerves if I'm always in my recliner.

Well, unless I write again about my forever talky flatmate, Dean. Nobody wants to read yet another Dean story, but damn it, he's in the kitchen right now, gnawing on my nerves.

Only a door separates us, and Robert has joined Dean in the kitchen, and they're talking about football.

Always it's football.

♦ ♦ ♦

Dean works 3-4 days a week. I know this because he tells me, often, and tells me which days they'll be this week, and which days next week. The days he works are my good days in the recliner.

On days he's not working, he sometimes cooks, accompanied by classical music. He sometimes stays in his room, but with the door open. And on most of his off days, Dean finds plenty of time to sit alone in the kitchen, in the chair that squeaks.

He sits there and reads a book, or surfs the net on his tablet. If I come out of my room to make a meal or go to the bathroom, he'll tell me what book he's reading, and what marvelous entrees he made yesterday at the restaurant.

Usually I ignore him and say nothing, but damn my good manners, sometimes I reply, which only extends the agony. I rarely tell him to shut up, because saying it never gets him to shut up, and never even gets him angry. It only gets me angry, so ... usually I ignore him and say nothing.

I'm glad he prefers the squeaky chair. The squeak warns me that he's in the kitchen. The squeaks, and his three slight coughs every half-hour or so — kf, kf, then wait, then kf.

Dean sits in that squeaking chair, alone for hours, hoping someone will come into the kitchen and join him for The Dean Show. Usually it's Robert who'll wander in to make soup or take a shower, then sit in the other chair, the chair that doesn't squeak. Robert will mostly listen, as Dean talks about football for hours. Sometimes it's 'L' instead of Robert, but always it's football and almost always it's hours.

It comes close to literally amazing me, that grown men can talk about football for hours on Tuesday, and then the same men will talk about football again for hours on Thursday. What's left to be said about football? 

They'll discuss at length a particular play from a game weeks or years ago, then a great pass or rough tackle from a different game, and who's the finest quarterback and who's the tightest end.

Once The Dean Show is underway, it's an hour, often two, sometimes three or even four hours. It's not all about football, but that's most of it — even in the off-season.

On the very awfullest days, there are two episodes of The Dean Show — he'll talk to Robert about football for an hour or two, until Robert fades back to his room, but later 'L' comes out, and they'll talk about football for an hour or two.

Today, though, is the best of all Dean days off. After only an hour of squeaking and kf kf coughing, Robert came into the kitchen, and after only a few minutes of those two talking about what happened in Monday night's game, 'L' came home. He'd seen the game, too, and there's a third chair in the kitchen for this very scenario, so 'L' joined the conversation, and the three of them, Dean, Robert, and 'L', have been talking about football for an hour now.

And that's good. That's the best I can hope for — serving my sentences concurrently, not consecutively. 

And maybe it's time to ride a bus to anywhere and back, just to see and overhear some fresh idiots.

10/26/2023   

 itsdougholland.com
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