Logistics, Again

D thought a new radiator cap might be the fix for my truck. He went and got one, this afternoon, while I was setting up chairs for a music event. Refilling the radiator he's concerned my temperature gauge wasn't red-lining, thinks the thermostat is dead. The water runs right through, leaking underneath the truck. Something probably serious, water-pump, seals. Can't drive my truck and it's Friday afternoon, car rental place doesn't have anything for me to rent, and I'm prepared to sleep at the museum, when D says he'll drop me off at the bottom of my hill, then pick me up again Monday morning, to take the truck into the shop. Excellent boss. A couple of days isolated on the ridge, but there's nothing odd about that. Need to make a batch of cheese grits, because I didn't do a weekend shop; had needed to run to town tomorrow, to do laundry and shop, but fuck a bunch of dirty socks, I have enough booze, tobacco and papers, I can eat beans on toast. An added spice is that it's the hottest day of the year, over 100, with 90% humidity, and I have to walk up the driveway. It's not bad, I stop a few times, take a swig of water (D had sent me up with a bottle of water I had forgotten that he had remembered) at every stop, and at the top, I give a little bow, thanking the gods. The dog is confused but mostly wants to be fed, so whines, and spins in circles. When I get to the house, and stop moving, I sweat from every pore. Like my truck, the water moves through me. I have to strip down, drape my already sopping clothes over the backs of chairs, and stand under a ceiling fan before I can even think. Then I go out on the deck and pour a gallon of tepid water over my head, then go back and stand under the ceiling fan. Fucking dufus. Standing naked under a ceiling fan: the center of attention was a recently discovered Greek bust, a real thing. If you live on a major river-system, eventually everything floats by, I can ignore almost everything. I couldn't live near an airport, because I hate planes, hate being near an Interstate; what I require is none of the above. Always and forever. You remember me, right? I'm your friend Tom. You remember him, right? there's a connection? You're close to heat-stroke, when the sweat fairly pops. I lose power and phone, fucking boonies, lay on the sofa, with damp wash-clothes placed just so. Lately, I find myself removing my character from any situation, and inserting a fiction. Realize that's mostly what we do, substitute fiction. I don't have an argument with that. One thing, really, is as good as another. It's a hard town, down in Buena Vista, I'd rather be alone, but here we are. Scratching at my door. Spare me little girl voices, Jewel and Pink, I might trust Bonny Rait. I trust Beethoven, right at the end, those last pieces, when he couldn't hear.