Early this morning I dreamed I was trying to take my final exam in Beats & Hippies (the big event is tonight). I arrived early to the university and was going over some last minute cramming when someone came along and needed a hand with something (I don't remember what). Wanting to do the right thing, I helped them, but then realized I was too late to take the exam. I found my professor and he, being a nice guy, allowed me to go take it then, but the only place for me to take it was a public area where people kept coming up and asking for help, which of course I would give them. Frustrated by the inability to take a test I confidently knew I could ace, I then woke up. Beeping. Phone. Might be important and even worth the risk. A prospective employer calling at 7am? Shock of cold, lumber up the stairs, flip it up, my voice lurching.
Despite reports in the newspaper that city crews plowed all residential streets by Wednesday night after the big snowstorm on Tuesday, we in this working class mid-town neighborhood know better. Maybe they just figure that those who don't speak much good English won't complain. She's the only white person in her apartment building and speaks a fairly literate Midwest English, but her little blue car is stuck. I meant to get it out over the weekend and never did. I'll just drive her over and earn a trip to the Krispy Kreme on the way back. What kind of person rewards himself with clogging his own arteries? I'm more American than they want to admit.
I pull up and she's almost onto the road, right tire spinning. Shoulder to the trunk, shoulder to the trunk, get out of the way, shoulder back on the trunk. She's determined to keep me away from the Krispy Kreme. She finally wins and I hope none of the Nebraska slush I'm wearing now got on her when we hugged.
My car warmed up, I feel obligated to do more than just go park and head back inside to read Abbie Hoffman. I'm not going to the Krispy Kreme way out West during rush hour, but 5 minutes to the grocery store and I'm just not sure which frosting works best for me today. I let the gentleman patiently waiting behind me in and he quickly fills his box. I turn into my dad, the guy who comments to strangers and understands that community is made up of kind words.
"Lucky co-workers, with a guy who brings in donuts early on Monday morning."
"They're for my customers, actually."
I tell dad he's done his duty, he's been nice, he can stop right here.
"Oh? What do you sell?"
"Electrical equipment."
"Nice. I hope the donuts work and they buy a lot."
Ten years ago, I would have been pleading with my other Father for a distraction or a sudden need for the bathroom to strike my father.
"Well, I've been doing it for thirty-six years. Whatever happens today won't make much of a difference one way or the other."
By now we've both grabbed our grease and shuffle off, my direction determinedly different than his. Brian Wilson's falsetto captures me for at least the thousandth time and I know today's going to be good, at least, because I'm walking around a grocery store and God seems to be crooning through the loudspeaker, "Don't Worry, Baby." I time it right and hit the self-checkout station just as the song finishes, priding myself on the quickness with which I ring up and pay for my pastries and an unmentioned Christmas gift I picked up along the way. Peripheral vision alerts me to another potential awkward situation and I quicken my pace, but he's got the angle. He's right behind me, but maybe...no, his car is parked next to mine. I always wonder if, having acknowledged someone once, I've done my duty and should keep silence from there. Is it rude to not at least nod and grunt a little when, somehow, you both end up in the same place again? Because somehow, we always do.