Too Much

Started raining last night and supposed to continue for several days, during a lull, in the afternoon, I beat it back to the museum. I have to be there tomorrow morning, to deal with the painters; then Sara and I rearrange the Carter's. Rains hard in the late afternoon and I would have been trapped on the ridge, which I don't mind, usually, call in and take a couple of days off, lord knows I have them coming. But I know Sara wants to rehang the Carter's and I enjoy the work. When I get to the museum, I start a pot of coffee, then go down to the library and get a few books, go back up to the office I use, call up Hulu and watch a couple of things, while looking through pictures, Utrillo, Gauguin, Chagall; read through some reviews in The London Review Of Books, read another novel by Alex Kava, an almost decent escapist writer. Not sure what Gauguin was saying, putting those girls in European dress. Patter of rain outside, I crashed early. Painting crew arrived on time, an older guy, the Facilities Manager and two young bucks. They go back to the hospital for what they need, and just the two younger guys come back. They're happy to be away from the boss, and they're good: neat and fast. I've been on a couple of painting crews, and I paint a lot of walls here. Very good work. Sara came in at eleven, I opened the vault and pulled out replacement paintings, took a few things off the wall, Sara rearranged. She made a quick job of it, natural groupings, and we know all these Carter paintings and drawings so well. I restore order, and she leaves early, to pack for Hilton Head. The painting crew leaves. I hang around for a while, walk through the Carter gallery, making sure I can make sense of my notes, lock up, go over to the pub. Their roof is leaking and Barb is upset, I don't blame her, seems to be true that if it's not one thing it's another. Issac comes in, on Xmas break from OU, and then his partner, Astra, and we chat. Last thing, before I leave the pub, I always roll a cigaret, to smoke of my way back to the truck; there's a guy sitting to my right (Barb, Issac and Astra are all strung to the left) watching me roll (it sounds like a football play.) Someone wrote my name (in permanent marker on his forearm.) He leaves when I do and follows me outside, asks if I'd roll him a smoke. There are chairs, and it's a well lit area, and I say sure, sit down and roll him a cigaret. I assume he's a narcotics agent and hope he'll enjoy Kentucky "Gambler" pipe tobacco, hand-rolled, thinking it was a doobie. But actually, he surprises me by saying "You're Tom Bridwell, I Googled you," Third time it's happened this week. In Portsmouth, Ohio. I know where this outbreak started, TR, at that party last weekend. I'm flattered that someone would write my name on their forearm, I think; that I'd need to be Googled. I'd use a lot more semi-colons if Roy Blount Jr. hadn't spoken out so strongly against them.