I got to our house after midnight and went immediately to sleep. In the middle of the night, the songbird was calling (I had to pee). I was sleeping in the basement of this 900 square foot house. (The basement is so small it doesn't even count in that number.) I dutifully got out of bed in the pitch black and managed to trip over the suitcase I had left in the middle of the floor. I put a hand out in the dark to balance myself and proceeded to pierce my palm. I could see from some errant lighting from the stairs that it was a Brazilian objet d'art made of tin.
I bravely soldiered on - up the nine rickety stairs that led to the real living space. I turned on the light in the bathroom and immediately noticed blood splattered all over the floor and the bathroom sink. It could've been Saw 17.
"Holy shit. Who was bleeding? Do I have to clean this up?"
The blood spills were getting bigger. It was dripping buckets on the sink and the floor.
"Holy shit. It's me. It's my hand."
I looked around the bathroom for anything and realized that I knew nothing regarding the possible location of a band aid. With my hand frozen over the sink thanks to the dripping blood, I heard Lulu, my single mom, stir. She had apparently awoken because of my incessant stumbling.
"Oh Lulu, I'm so glad you're up. Do you have a little band-aid I could use?" I asked casually.
With sleep still covering her eyes, Lulu answered in her sing-song way. "Oh, sure, sweetie. They're up hear in the...whaaaaaa? Honey, what happened? There is blood everywhere!" Mom mode kicked in.
"Hand up!" she yelled forcibly. I lifted my hand over my head as Lulu ran to the kitchen and grabbed a paper towel. She returned, washed my hand with soap and hydrogen peroxide, and applied pressure to it using the paper towel. "From the color of this mess, I can tell you have enough iron."
Lulu bandaged my hand and told me to keep pressure on it as I fall asleep. As I drifted off, I ruminated on the fact that not only did this never happen when I lived here full time - I never even owned a box of band aids. You can't go home again.
The next day, I told a few friends about my experience with the tin object d'art. Said friends told me that, since I had not had one in 25 years, a tetanus shot might be a good idea. When I searched the internet and found pictures of people with the disease all spazzed out, I agreed with them. So I went to an urgent care facility, a concept of which I had never heard.
It seems urgent care is a doctor's office where you walk in with your insurance card and they treat what ails you for the amount of your co-pay. Well, this particular urgent care was taking its bloody well good time. After waiting an hour and a half (and reading the TIME magazine analysis of Hilary Clinton's persidential nomination campaign twice) I finally mentioned to someone the length of time I had been waiting. She got the doctor on his ass. I thought about the medical profession. Some things never change. You can't go home again. NOT.
I was prepared to rip this guy a new asshole for making me wait. I had seen him on the telephone a few times - not looking at my chart. He had even taken before me a patient who had walked in after me. I was pissed. When Dr. Longfellow entered the room thoug something happened: he immediately charmed me. He was a sweet, jovial fellow. I couldn't help but go from anger to a desire to charm (metaphorically) him back. And I did. You can't go home again.
After work, I returned to the basement. Hoping to have some time alone with my memories, I stood in the backyard looking around and was surprised to find the trees and lawn were perfectly manicured. When I lived in the house full-time, the grass was always mowed but the weeds were so overgrown and the trees always needed to be cut. Now the trees were not bushy, flowers were in bloom, the lawn was mowed, and the yard was clipped. You can't go home again.
I walked in the house, for the first time during daylight, and was floored at how small it had become. For one thing Lulu has low-hanging balls. She hung objets d'art all over the ceiling. it might have been lovely for a 5 foot 4 inch woman to walk underneath those balls but not for a 6 foot 1 hunk of man (poetic license). You can't go home again.
I ran into a neighbor I hadn't seen in almost two years. "I knew you must come back but I never saw you." She is the member of a couple that had recently had a baby. The baby was adorable. Wearing an adorable jacket. She was excited. We chatted and I told her I had written a play and had produced a reading of it with actors and everything. I was excited. She looked great. I looked great. You can't go home again. NOT.
I went to Santana Row, one of the most commercially crass and undeniably faux-European strip malls in America, There was an orchestra playing Christmas music, one week before Thanksgiving. There was a very tall couple. I loved it. You can't go home again. NOT.
I bought a CD. It was a NEW CD. You can't go home again.
Ohhh. No more petals left. I guess Thomas Wolfe was right. At least it keeps this cock-eyed caravan exciting.