Tomorrow, Tuesday, Mom had two home health care visits scheduled — physical therapy, and a shower. When health care professionals ring the doorbell, my presence becomes less vital, so Katrina and I agreed that I’d have the day off.
Yup — once in a great while, I take a day off from helping Katrina take care of our mom. I sleep late, and hope to do nothing. And I love those days off.
My plan for tomorrow was a bus ride to my bank, which is necessary once monthly because the landlord doesn’t take checks, plastic, or anything but cash. He’s a libertarian, I think, but we don’t talk about it because I’m not good at chatting with stupid people.
And usually, when I’m out and about on a day off, I’ll treat myself to a meal out. I already knew where I’d be eating — a return visit to Falafel Salam, where I’d try the vegetarian options, now that I’m avoiding meat.
That was the plan, but Mom’s home health people are flaky, often canceling or changing appointments, and last night Katrina texted that both Mom’s appointments had been rescheduled for Monday — today, instead of tomorrow. So with no notice, I swapped my day off to today.
♦ ♦ ♦
The #128 bus is electric on weekdays, and I hate the electric buses. Had to sit sideways, and the trip had one of those drivers who loves to play with the pedals — gas, brake, gas, brake, gas, gas, brake, brake, swerve. In a stretch with no traffic, no bus stops, he laid on the gas and then brakes in exactly the right combination to twist my back. “Motherfucker!” I shouted, and I’ve been limping ever since.
While withdrawing the rent from the bank, the teller made me wait while he explained some new security protocol to another employee. I didn’t understand much beyond the fact I had to wait, but he twice referred to “DNA sampling,” which presumably means some new high-tech insult is coming, and they’ll call it “security.”
From the bank, I limped painfully to the falafel place, but they’re closed on Mondays. Slowly crossed the street to my second choice, Puerto Vallarta, where a sign on the door said, “On break, back in 45 minutes.” My third choice would’ve been Great American Diner, but the windows are papered over and they were tearing down the Great American sign, which seems fitting for 2026.
All this was in Seattle’s Alaska Junction, a mildly upscale but tolerable neighborhood with dozens of restaurants. I didn’t want dozens of restaurants, though. Didn’t want someplace new. I’d come for the falafel, damn it, and might’ve settled for Mexican or even whatever’s vegetarian at the out-of-business burger place, but fuck the rest of the restaurants.
Sighed and limped onto a bus, with the same driver who’d wrenched my back getting there. Spent the ride cursing my back and my luck and the driver.
But hey, there’s decent food in the fridge and freezer at home. Decided I’d microwave some frozen fries and a fake chicken sandwich on raisin bread, mmmm. By the time I tenderly winced my way off the bus, I was really looking forward to lunch, but …
Dean was in the kitchen, wearing his puffy white chef’s hat and apron and everything, which guarantees he’ll be in the kitchen non-stop all afternoon. Chicken body parts were spread on the naked counter, which I’m certain Dean hadn’t washed before plopping raw meat on it, and hoping he won’t forget to wipe the blood and bacteria away afterwards. He’s forgotten before.
And he started talking at me soon as I stepped into the house, telling me what he was making, and what ingredients were in it, and how everyone had loved it the last time he’d made it. And also, “Looks like you’re limping, bud. Did you do something to your back?”
With as few words as possible, I evaporated into my room and closed the door on whatever he was saying.
It would’ve taken ten minutes in the kitchen to prep my microwave meal, but hell if I’m going to spend ten minutes being talked at by Dean, so fuck it and fuck him. Ate a big sack of corn chips for lunch, with a small sack of potato chips on the side.
While chewing my chips and disappointment, I banged out a text to my brother Clay. For weeks, he’s been insistently inviting me to his house next Monday, to watch a Mariners game on TV with a few friends (his friends, strangers to me). I’ve said no nicely already, but he keeps asking so this afternoon’s no wasn’t so nice.
In 2022, I moved back to Seattle, where I grew up, where my family is. The idea was to be part of the family again, for at least my final few years until croaking. And I do want family, in theory, but it’s gotta be on my terms — I am not going to church, not going to watch the latest right-wing fake-Christian movie, and not going to some little kid’s birthday party, even if the kid is my grand-nephew.
Having said no to those invitations, though, there’s nothing much left to say yes to.
I’d say yes to the baseball get-together, if it wasn’t at Clay’s house. He lives in Prairie Dog City, about 50 miles into the suburbs and beyond, but it feels like 100. No bus comes within miles of that town, so the only way to Clay’s house is riding in someone’s car, which adds two hours of chit-chat coming and going. Factor in a baseball game, and it’s a minimum of eight hours of conversation.
Normal humans do that all the time, I suppose, but I ain’t a normal human. Cripes, if my dead wife came back — my very favorite person in my entire life — I don’t think we could talk non-stop for eight damned hours.
What’s worse, the baseball shindig is a week from today, right after another weekend in Straggle. Yeah, damn it, I’m going to another family reunion on the other side of the mountains. I do not want to be there, thanks for asking, but Mom does, and Katrina’s taking her, but the heavy lifting — Mom up from bed, up from a chair, into another chair, etc — is too much for Katrina, so I’ll be there.
That’s family.
The only route to Straggle is via the freeway over the mountains, and then a hundred miles of one-lane 50 mph highways, which terrifies me just typing it. Riding in a car, I’m always aware how quickly our lives could be snuffed out at 70 miles per hour. Gotta keep my eyes closed or I’ll scream.
Four or five hours on the freeways and highways, coming and going, and between those awful rides, two days in Eastern Washington’s always, always scorching dry summer, while half-attempting to socialize with strangers. They’re family, but we have nothing in common, beyond a few random chromosomes.
And if I make it back over the mountains and freeways alive, the very next day, comes a day of conversation with Clay and a few strangers in Prairie Dog City, watching the Mariners lose again? No, no, no, and actually I texted “no” seven times, while eating corn chips and listening to Dean rattle cookware and talk to himself in the kitchen.
That is not a day I’d choose, and neither is today, and you know what? I’m old and damned tired of days I didn’t choose.
Today’s my day off, but everything since waking up has sucked. My back hurts and Dean’s still cooking and talking on the other side of the door, and it’s only 2:00 in the afternoon. Plenty of afternoon and evening ahead, plenty of time for everything to suck worse.
7/20/2026
Leave a Reply