Dead Reckoning

Reckoning? A merit badge you earn for finding your way with a compass. There's now a school of navigation that uses an entire previous set of tools, the flight of birds, the taste of the water, ocean currents, to determine where you are and where you hope to be going. Key West was the first place there wasn't any parental supervision, be home for dinner was the only caveat; Dad was on sea-duty but he was home most nights, Mom worked at a jewelry store, and I built a succession of rafts from which I surveyed the cays. Only had to be rescued once, drifting out to sea, by the Coast Guard. The mangrove tangles and the birds were an education; now I only walk the ruts in the road, avoiding ticks and chiggers, aimed squarely at my back door. I still track in bugs and scat, it's not be helped if you live in the real world, but at least I cut down on the volume. Speaking of which, I'd pulled into the intersection where Sixth met Gay, I just wanted to go to the library, and a convertible pulled up next to me with Hip Hop blaring, and it pissed me off, that I had to listen to that crap. At five meters I'm world class with a pellet gun. Something else pissed me off recently, several things, truth be known, I'm on a roll for expressing my discontent, a phenomenon that seems to be linked to the season and the phase of the moon. I was reading some art criticism and I'd gotten upset. Fucking academics drive me to drink. Jean-Michael Basquiat, spare me. I go off on a rant, wonderfully cadenced and composed completely of expletives, the sailor's wife tossing slops out the window:

Goddamn, goddamn the
motherfucking fucker
has driven me
to fuck the pool guy.

Next time, here and now, when I look up, two young does are nosing through leaves right outside the window. Fat, putting on winter weight, they're handsome animals. I watch them for a while, until they wander off. A little afternoon shower that only adds to the misery. I do go out and stand in the rain for a few minutes and it lowers my surface temperature by about thirty degrees. I typically drape wet clothes on the backs of chairs in a kind of rotation. When I wash a batch of boxer-briefs and tee-shirts, I sometimes string a line between a stairway post and the far corner of the kitchen area. Mid-winter, I would say, the moisture is welcome. I like to bring next week's wood in early, so it can breathe a bit, contribute to the local humidity.