Potluck Tao - Part 1
My best friend Patrick missed my email reunion with my birth daughter. He missed her first faltering phone call. He missed the catch in my voice during those early days, the way I wondered what would happen next, the wait, the wait, the long lumbering wait, and the way I paced my yard to blow off energetic steam. He missed my Avon encounter with the monkey lady and the day I met a customer with no pants. All these things I would have shared with Patrick. I would have called him on the phone and said "You're not going to fucking believe this!" I would have met him for breakfast and imitated my customer who owns flea-bitten organic Jack Russell terriers, imitated me creeping through her house, imitated my two dragonfly children darting this way and that. He missed all of it. He can't get any of that back. It's not the same to tell him now, even though I started opening my scrolls last week, started my oral tradition once more, in our diner, in our tired eyed bodies, some days after he sent me a letter.
"What's happening? You never write or call, or visit." That's what his letter said, and when I clicked it open I felt my heart fill with righteous anger. What does he mean I never call? What's he talking about? I waited all fucking summer for a sign, I tried to email and call and visit and he snapped my fucking head off, he yelled at me and told me he was too busy for me and couldn't deal with my card house of troubles. He yelled at me! What's his fucking problem?
But I didn't write that in a return email. I didn't call and yell. I waited a day. Then I waited another day. I waited for my heart to subside, for the anger to ebb into my ocean of grief, I waited while I took my boys to a funeral mass and cleaned my dirt crumb house for visiting relatives and wrote chit chat emails to my birth daughter, I just waited until I could face it/him/summer with nothing but nothing in my heart.
"Hey, how ya doin'?" I wrote back to him. "I had a long hot summer, how about you? You feeling all right? Last I heard you were waiting for tests. What did the doctor say? I met my daughter in email. I know her name. She looks like me. 19's working the night shift at the ethnic imports store. 17 took driver's ed. 9 and 7 lost their grampa last week. Like I said, it's been a long, hot summer. Tell me about yours." Simple words. Quiet words. I worried he could read my secret invisible ink, the part where I lashed out and said with red cheeks and shaking hands: "I hate you! I hate you! You ruined my summer! All summer long I needed to talk to you! All summer long I missed you and the missing you was hell, was sheer perfect hell, and it hurt like nothing else this summer, hurt worse than the memory of my rape and the fact that my birth daughter is an adult and I don't know anything about her and it hurt more than losing a good old man and hurt more than all the times I got doors slammed in my Avon face. I hate you! I hate you!"
I think he heard those words. We always had a bit of a telepathic thing going, the kind of friendship where houseflies and bread mold carry stories across town, where the phone rings and I knew his wife cussed him out, his phone rang and he knew 7 lost another tooth. I think he heard those words because his answer to me carried his own invisible ink, the silver ink of construction nails, the white ink of school glue, computer ink and email paper like soothing afternoon mint forgiveness tea.
We met for breakfast. I told him my stories, but they weren't important, not compared to his stories of doctors and tests and tubes and machines and anger, red heaving anger, anger at approaching death.
"I only have a few months left, Birdie. Just a few months. I had to come to terms with this and figure out how I want to live the end of my life. I won't be connected to machines. I'll check off the planet myself if it comes to that. I was too angry to speak with anyone. I would have hurt you and said things you wouldn't like. I was angry with everyone and everything. I didn't understand why I have to go through this. I still don't understand and I don't think it's fair but I'm not angry anymore."
Patrick continued talking. He told me of his plans to take his own life when the time comes. He told me about the marijuana the doctor prescribed for relaxation and pain relief and appetite. I listened and tried not to cry and tried not to be angry with myself for being so angry with him in our summer of potluck anger.
And so our friendship sprouted new branches, and we called and emailed and instant messaged and sent telepathic sproutlings by the thousands, and it was almost as good and strong a tree as before the crap summer. Almost. Until a few days ago, that is, when we met for fancy seafood lunch and a dumb theatre movie and dessert, bitter smoky dream dessert.
Patrick handed me an envelope. We sat in my van, rolling eyes at the movie, stomachs still distended from too much iced tea and sourdough bread and garlic mashed potatoes. We sat in the van and I opened the unsealed business sized envelop, opened it to find thin hand-rolled cigarettes and my mind stared at it for a moment, not understanding the image, the scent, the black green herb spilling across the whiteness like sand fleas.
"Birdie, it's pot. It's dessert. C'mon, let's find a park and smoke."
To Be Continued... this evening, I promise! It's just too long to post as one piece....
4:24:24 PM 
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