A Pilgrim’s Digression

I slept poorly last night.  In my dreams, I was helping to build a house for Habitat for Humanity, an activity completely at odds with my non-work ethic.  So all night long, I was pounding nails while family members, including my Grandpa, looked on.

The thunk, thunk, thunk of hammer on nail, nail on wood, became almost nightmarish, after awhile.  My Grandpa was proud of me, though.  He said, “I taught you how to hold that hammer.”

You have to hold a hammer low on the handle, so when you swing it the hammer provides much of the weight that drives the nail; hold a hammer too high and you are driving a nail only with muscle power.  My grandpa taught me that when Dad, Mom, and I were building our house on Pine Avenue in Parkersburg.

At one point I took a break and wiped away the sweat from my face.  I was shirtless and pretty buff, practically a teenager again.

As I rested, my aunt Stella offered me a cigarette, a Lucky Strike.   Aunt Stella was weeping; in my dream, her husband, Harry, had died recently.  In reality, he is still alive, but very sick with a heart condition that probably will kill him sooner, rather than later.

I lit the cigarette with a match.  The first puff was heady and rich; the smoke flowed into my lungs smooth as if someone were pulling a silk handkerchief down through my air passages.

I went back to pounding nails, the cigarette drooping from my mouth.

I woke up from all this pounding at a little before three, and I could not go back to sleep.  I lay awake until 4:30, at which time I got up to prepare for work.

In my lungs was the ghostly feeling of cigarette smoke.  I can still feel it.

I breakfasted at Pete’s today, as I try to do every Thursday.  The women recognize me, now.  When I walked in this morning, the older Asian woman said, “The usual?”  I said yes.  She hollered my order to the young Asian woman at the grill: “Two over easy.”

“What’s your name?”  She asked, turning back to me.

“Matt,” I said.

“We no see you for a long time.”

“I try to come in once a week, at least once a week.”

She turned to the young Asian woman, “His name is Matt and he come in once a week.”

Maybe they try to learn the names of all their regular customers.  It would be typical of the service I receive there.  These women work fast and efficiently.

I took my coat off, sat down at the bar, and opened my book, American Gunfight: the Plot to Kill Harry Truman.  I had read one sentence and the older Asian woman was placing my plate of eggs, potatoes, and bacon in front of me.

I should ask their names next time, so I don’t have to keep calling them “older Asian woman” and “younger Asian woman,” as if they were minor actors in some personal play.

I would eat at Pete’s more often, but “the usual” has become too expensive.  I paid $7.35 for my meal, with coffee, plus a dollar tip.  The coffee and service are excellent, though, I must say.  They serve strong Maxwell House coffee, which I rarely drink anymore and which reminds me of every fishing trip I have ever taken with my Dad.

I think I am going to have to scale down my breakfast, however.  I may try a bowl of maple and brown sugar oatmeal with coffee, next time.  Or plain old raisin bran.  I don’t know what the price of a bowl of cereal is, but it may be at least five dollars.  I suppose some people would feel cheated, paying such prices for food they could have at home.

I like Pete’s.  I like it a lot.  I like the informality of it.  I like the cheap, cloth-covered swivelling bar stools.  I like the old men sitting in the corner, reading the papers and chatting earnestly about something.

I like looking above the counter and seeing boxes of cereal, a box containing packets of Quaker oatmeal (just like at home), and small boxes of various teas.  The sugar bowl sits on the counter where the older Asian woman slaps jam on toast.  The sugar bowl is no different than one would have at home, just a little larger.  The dishes are all mismatched, just like at home.

I pay my bill with a ten, take a one in change and leave the rest on the bar.  Now all I need is a cigarette, and breakfast is complete.  But I don’t smoke anymore, so I have to make do with the still-near memory of my dream smoke.

I step out into a beautiful spring morning.  It is gorgeous out, today.  Cold, but brightly shining.  The capitol glimmers in the easterly morning sun.  It hurts your eyes to look at it.

The cold air on my bald head reminds me to put my cap on.  I think at lunch, I may walk down to the Botanical Gardens, or the National Gallery.  There is an exhibit at the National Gallery called Cezanne in Provence that I have been meaning to see for months.

Today would be a perfect day to absorb some Impressionist light.