Famous Men
I went into the jewelry store in need of a little pick-me-up. Just looking, not buying. No particular reason, which surely is a reason, as everybody comes to know.
The conversation was already in process. Sightings of famous men. Robert Redford was the star of the story, as he probably always is whenever he shows up. I’d be excited too, if I saw him.
I added Robert Plant to the list. Once I stayed for a whole week at a shabby-expensive hotel where he and his band of pirates also stayed. I wasn’t even a big fan then, but I knew him when I saw him come strolling — ambling — shambling? — out onto the hotel patio for fancy breakfast. The sky was super blue, a cool-but-promising morning, and everyone had Mexican blankets across their laps for warmth — the perfect touch the hotel was known for even though the knob came right off the shower and the to-do list must have been long. No one could have written the scene any better.
That night, my sister read from his Wikipedia entry and we learned he had been knighted and we began to refer to him as Sir Plant when we alerted each other to sightings, which were plentiful: in the hotel bar and on a balcony and, famously — to us, I mean — in the hot tub with all the other pirates as they told stories of the road, or so we assumed. We were on the other side of the pool watching-but-not-watching, super casual as we have of course never actually been, all the while trying to buy tickets for his sold-out show.
So we bought the tickets and they turned out to be fake but we got in anyway because we, my sister and I, that is, look nice and we are and by then we had lost all perspective and she was treating and paid what had to be paid for Standing Room Only and I encouraged her.
The women in the jewelry store were impressed. Other stories were offered. Bruce Willis. Chuck Woolery. The stakes were getting lower, but still —.
So I bought the earrings, which were zircon, which is real and not to be confused with zirconia. Peachy-pink, for grounding, I guess, or healing, or hope, as is usually the case and almost always needed.
And then I asked about the ponies that I knew lived at the store, this place being in a little town where such things were more typical than not. Around back, I was told, and I made my way past three very good-looking chickens and a quite awful scarecrow with a woman’s wig, which I assumed did the job.
The ponies stopped eating and looked up when I said hello. They seemed interested enough for the moment, but on the whole used to this sort of thing.
Walking back down the gravel path was not dissimilar to the morning after the concert: same blue sky, but Sir Plant and his brand of magic and trouble long gone.
I clutched the bag with the earrings. It was tied with a ribbon. I decided that that alone made me feel a little better. A little better and, as is often the way, a little worse.
* * * * *
Sure Can’t
Another hot one. I’m inside watching Mary and Rhoda. My quarantine education. Also, can’t stop thinking: God so stirred the world. Not exactly what was said, but how I heard it.
I look forward to working with you in this capacity is how the letter ended. But not a real letter, the sort I keep telling myself I’ll write when I have the time, which, in fact, I do. And probably not a real sentiment either; who can say.
Anyway, story of our lives, I thought, twirling the words in my hands, except, you know, not really and that’s a downer.
So I picked up a real book and began where I left off. Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve read and what I haven’t because I’m not that kind of reader. The plot could be just about anything and often is.
Of course the letter was a contract. Lots of contracts in this life. Spoken and un-. Written and not. It’s often a mistake to assume someone else’s intentions, though it’s nice to think that’s possible.
I’m not ashamed to say I tune in partly for the clothes. Mary was a wearing a calico patchwork dress. Down to her ankles. And up to her neck where it ended in a ruffle. I remember such things. Rhoda wore a shorter dress with billowy sleeves and she looked cute and sassy as always and that’s why I prefer her.
The plot had to do with dating, as it often does, and reassuringly or not, it was mostly the same back then. A sense of humor comes in handy.
Per usual, I worry I’m missing something. A friend who hasn’t seen the show in years and years remembers that Mary’s date was named Howard. I watched just yesterday and didn’t catch that. Someone else probably wouldn’t sign this contract.
It’s likely no big deal, but stuff does come along to test us, so that crosses my mind. If God isn’t paying attention, well, how come? And if God is, well, that’s another problem maybe.
I happen to mostly believe in God, or similar, so I’m perplexed a lot of the time, to say the least.
Spoiler alert: Mary and Rhoda hoped for better luck next time; the book had a bittersweet ending; I signed.
The summer, already so hot, had only just officially begun.