Continued from last week-
We continue with talk but I'd not call it small talk.
"My boyfriend and I are all through, I'm going back to New Jersey, "she said.
Bam, she landed that clinker like ton a bricks.
Do I assume she's just conversationally hung out a vacancy sign? Or do I read a note of sadness in her tone from which she's trying to milk sympathetic council? Hard to say, when you're in the moment, and you're clueless.
Ignoring her relationship status update I ask, in a way not unlike a doctor asks a patient when they might have first noticed the swelling, what she plans to do when she gets home to New Jersey.
"I have no idea. No plans. I don't really know."
Mmm. It wasn't an-I have no idea, I have no plans, I don't really know, because I'm heart broken over my break-up.
It was more like an-I have no idea, I have no plans, I don't really know, so if you ask me to go for a ride right now, I'll go.
Was I savvy enough to read between the lines? No. So I played her cue with boring sincerity-"Well, you don't have to know. You'll figure it out."
Hello, operator? Yes, I'd like to place a call. I'm looking for-uh, the family jewels; I seemed to have misplaced them.
Ah, the pain of a skinny white boy bred in the lap of a sturdy, warm, solid Christian home that oozed goodness from every pore; a clean home from which the F word never flew. A home where parents clinked tiny glasses of orange juice over breakfasts of cereal with fruit, buttered white toast, and cups of coffee, every morning. A home that hosted cozy, chocolate chip cookie-themed, tradition steeped, Jesus-based, cold-snowy-jingle-belled family only holidays, the likes of which singer Andy William's late 1960s-era Christmas television specials couldn't hold a candle.
The skinny white boy couldn't know what ma's and pa's relationship was really like, but that didn't matter. That the skinny white boy's needs were always cared for, a by product of ma's and pa's disciplined relationship and fundamental rearing; that mattered.
The skinny white boy believed-well beneath his core-that his type of home life was the good life, and the only life. He thought every family in the world opened presents on Christmas morning.
What that type of home life is happens to be the type that can set you up for a charmed life. What that type of home life is not, is the type that teaches you how to pick up women for potential easy lovin'. And here now-at almost 50 years old and without a wife and kids-easy lovin' is the only lovin' there is.
I can't seem to navigate well through this meeting between the pretty girl and myself. But reader, don't give up hope, the story continues.
To be continued.