Anticipation

You guys decide on a show, I can hang it. Not arrogance but a matter of fact. That way I get to handle the art, see what it weighs, make a decision about anchors. Today, for instance, yesterday, actually, I did the unthinkable, and no one needs to know. When Beverly Sills did her last "Traviata" we pulled out all the stops, nothing was enough. She kissed me for a perfect show, we dined on ziti with way too much butter. She didn't need to know the best boy was tripping, the key grip was out on parole. I assemble a crew, resemble someone in control. It's not quite a joke, but close, missing only a punch line. I never remember jokes, try as I might. On my Outhouse Calendar I can pinpoint the date if I count backwards. History is a myth, who did what to whom when. Past tense. Jana agreed with Sara and that's close enough for me, I'm transparent but not exactly clear. As far as that goes, I wish I knew more about the relationship between type faces and meaning. I prefer Old Style types, Caslon, Baskerville, but I work in Arial, what does that mean? How long do crows live? That lumbering male was back for another frog. He walks like a lumberjack, no finesse, takes what he wants. He knows I'm watching and doesn't care, he has me pegged, an older white male watcher, no threat, another one of those. Attachment is the issue. This afternoon, as people were arriving, I left. My work was done. I needed to get home and write you, a compulsion, almost an obsession. This is my drill, I get things ready, then leave. Events bore me beyond words. I'd rather not be there. Still, I am the janitor. I make sure the strongest trash bags are in place, that there are no grapes or gummy bears, sample the punch, peck Sharee on the cheek and go home. Mallory, was that her name? I like her eyes, soft, but understanding.