None of it Matters Any More

None Of It Matters Any More

Annabelle's is a funky bar on the wrong side of town. I used to hang out there all the time until the booze got the better of me. I still go, against the better judgment of my AA sponsor. "If you hang out in a hair salon, sooner or later, you will get a haircut," she told me. AA members are like that, they speak in innuendoes. For example, "One Day at a Time." It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out . . .

Because of my one day at a time life-style, I was perched on a bar stool, nursing a diet coke (instead of vodka on the rocks) while I waited for Peter. Butterflies churned in the pit of my stomach, I must admit a vodka martini would have been just what the doctor ordered, but those days are gone for good. There was a time when almost any occasion would have improved with a shot of vodka. Toss down a few martinis, and anyone looked good but it would have taken more than a shot to enhance the guy sitting next to me.  

Certainly not a perfect ten, not by a long shot, this guy was a piece of work. For as long as I can remember I have compared people to animals, and if he was an animal, he could have been a walrus. There was something mournful about him, and he had a large mustache, which I hate , always have, beards are ok, some beards, never those walrus mustaches. He was a fellow who took life very seriously, perhaps humorless, very analytical. How did I know this? I didn’t, but it has always been one of my worst traits, that of sizing up people before they even open their mouth. 

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Hear that music? He seemed to be in a trance.

“I do.”

“John Coltrane.”

“Do you play the saxophone,?” I asked. 

“I do.”

For a brief period of time we both listened. It’s Easy to Remember. The music was hypnotic, it seeped into the room like mist. I wasn’t surprised he was a musician, Annabelle’s was known for it’s live jazz, and featured live bands every Friday night.

“It’s easy to remember,” he said with a smile.

“But so hard to forget,” I added. Much to my surprise I found myself almost in tears. I was here to make some amends to Peter that I wished I could forget. I was terrible to him when we were dating, terrible and cruel, and I owed him an apology.  We have long since gone our separate ways, he is with a woman who is much nicer than I, and I am happy for him. Yet I remember so well the good times, before things got messy. I can’t forget because he made me so damn happy when he smiled. Suddenly a whole litany of smiles flooded into memory bank: my little brother’s smile when he used to crawl in bed with me early in the morning so that I could tell him a story before anyone else was up, and my history teacher’s smile when she handed my term paper back to me with a big A+ on it, and my father’s smile when I hit a home run. So many departed smiles, and I never told them how much they meant to me. It’s just so hard to forget. 

“Why did you choose the saxophone?”

“Why? Because it is what I was born to do.”

“You are very fortunate.”

“Fortunate? Why?”

“Because you know what you were born to do. I wish I knew what I was born to do, and please don’t tell me to follow my bliss.” That New Age crap makes me ill.”

“Do what you love, the money will follow? That’s a joke, but I don’t much care as long as I can play my saxophone.”

I envied him. Here was a not terribly handsome man, but he was totally comfortable in his own skin. 

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“I am, I am waiting for an old lover. I need to make some amends.”

“Amends,” he said. “You must be a 12th Stepper.”

“Yes, I am, how did you guess?”

“It’s a dead give away, that word amends.”

“Oh, well it must be done.”

“Don’t worry about it, he will be grateful, and if the truth be known, none of it matters any more.”

“I suppose you’re right, but I need to tell him that I am sorry.”

“He knows. The fact that you have made the effort to apologize says it all. But then you have far more important work to do.”

“What’s that?”

“You need to discover that one thing you were born to do.”

I didn’t have time to answer. Peter blew through the door like a hurricane, how typical. All smiles, he almost made me want to want him all over again. As Johnny Coltrane played in the background, I told Peter how sorry I was for being such a bitch. He smiled and told me not to worry about it, none of it matters any more. But still, it mattered to me because it’s  easy to remember but so hard to forget.

 

It's All Temporary