This one case I’ve got is making me squeamish.
I’m carrying extra magazines and keeping a long gun up in the front seat and changing my route to work and driving around the block a couple of times before I park anywhere and checking my mirrors and keeping my head on a swivel.
The funny thing about this is how alive it makes me feel.
Everything is sparkly and bright and vivid. I see everything. I am awake in a way that a therapist would call hyper alert but that I just call being careful.
I like it.
And I am almost one hundred percent certain that I have nothing to fear. But you never know. And really, I should be “all up ons” all the time. The list of people who might be a little bit unhappy with me is long. Something about me rubs a certain type of person the wrong way. All I have to do is just be in the room or something and they can develop a life-long, intense hatred for me. So, yeah, I should probably be careful.
But it’s kind of fun wondering if that car is slowing down for a reason.
Like being in a suspense movie.
The Bourne Redundancy.
Then I think about my wife and kid, and I don’t like it at all anymore. I want to be a dentist or a librarian. I was watching that new show on HBO, In Treatment. Gabriel Burns is this shaggy-haired, craggy-faced, sweet, old wise man who helps broken people. Anyway, I was watching him sitting in his well-worn leather chair, a pile of books behind him, little model sailboats all around, and someone talking to him quietly, and for a second I thought that’s the way to be.
Helping, but in a quiet, peaceful way. Fifty minutes at a time.
I mean, when he drives around a parking lot for five minutes, he’s looking for a place to park.
It ain’t me, babe.
No, thank you.
“Open wide. This isn’t going to hurt at all. You may feel a slight pressure.”