Dream Baby

Roy, Bruce and Bonnie

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I’ve written twice before about George (called Georgia) who stands guard at Concord Lumber and checks to see if you’ve filled your truck with more than what you’ve paid for. He’s eighty-two and never stops smiling, unless he’s discussing politics which I avoid like road kill. He works because he likes people, and that can be a problem. There is no whizzing by Georgia – he’s a talker, and sometimes the only relief is the truck that pulls up behind mine.

It’s not that I mind our talks – they are always pleasant and he’s always cheerful, it’s just that in theory I have some other place I need to be. This morning was a little different. Not in the length of our conversation, but in content.

“How’s your sister?” I ask. (She has Alzheimer’s)

“About the same. They gave her a new drug, but it didn’t work. About the same.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“People can live for years with it.”

I thought it odd that he said “people” when we were talking about his sister.

But then he opened up on me.

“Life is fucking misery.”

“Life is what?”

“Fucking misery. You get sick, people get old, your wife leaves you, your kids leave you.”

“What are you talking about?” I knew what he was walking about, cause he was singing my tune, but his own song and dance has always been so upbeat.

“You know what I’m talking about. Life is a one way street. We all know where it ends. I never used to think this, but If you’re young and you can have a good time, have it. If you see something you want – get it. Cause it’ll all end anyway.

I picked up my black pack, put it on the side of my face and leaned down onto the passenger side seat. From under the pack I cried, “Enough, enough.”

“You don’t want to hear this? Then go nail up your plywood.”