Eternal Present Tense, I Defy Thee

Pleasant, low-key holiday weekend.

Back in the days of the Little Store, the Memorial Day weekend marked the official beginning of the tourist season, that three-month period during which we had to hoard enough nuts to last us through the rest of the year. Stressful times, those! I thought they would never end. I thought I was trapped in some sort of eternal present tense.

But end, they did.

And here I am.

And I can barely remember them now.

###

I found myself repeating the phrase, “Not my tragedy,” during my weekly phone conversation with Max.

(He really is the most dutiful of sons!)

We were talking about Ben’s diagnosis.

“Well, that’s good,” Max said.

And I thought, The universe really does work in mysterious ways.

Back when I was smarting over what I perceived as Ben’s betrayal of deepest, bestest friendship, who would have thought that betrayal would gift me the ability to watch him suffer and think, Gee, that’s sad, but not really suffer myself?

I guess Ben really does evoke a certain degree of gloating in just about everyone.

###

Celeste sent me this photo of the wayback crew:



My God, they look so young!

I remember taking that Rage Against the Machine teeshirt on many, many spins through the washing machine.

That’s Nate leaning against Max’s chair to Max’s left. (He hasn’t changed one bit.)

That’s Aaron leaning against Max’s right. He has changed. By way of evidence, I present this photo from Nate’s wedding:



Is it just a matter of pushing their hair back from their foreheads? Or shaving their heads?

The pretty young man sitting to Max’s left is Travers, son of mega-rich real estate developer Lee ______ who lost most of his $$$ in the 2008 real estate crash. I can’t remember whether Travers’ opioid addiction and subsequent arrest and incarceration on B&E charges came before or after the 2008 real estate crash.



Someone else sent me this fabulous shot of San Francisco’s Chinatown as it was when I was first at U.C. Berkeley and used to spend my Saturdays walking from Port Authority down Market Street, up Grant Street and over to Coit Tower to see the WPA murals.

Another eternal present tense!

But that one ended, too.

Not My Tragedy

Ugh.

So now B’s doctors are saying it’s not myeloma—the cell markers are wrong—which means it’s back to being metastasis from a primary site, location yet to be determined, but in any event Stage IV.

Or, in other words, a death sentence.

Unless it’s bone cancer.

Which is also a death sentence but with a slightly more favorable 5-year survival rate.

Honestly, I don’t know what to think. Or what to feel.

The little glimmering umbilicus of pure connection is not there anymore, and God knows, he was an asshole throughout large chunks of our marriage. And afterwards.

But underneath it all, I’ve always liked him. He speaks The Language. So few people do.

We both agreed that Robin is not to be informed about this latest seesaw.

I got off the phone and felt terrible, incapable of concentrating on anything. And it’s pouring rain, so I can’t even run.

But still.

Not my tragedy.