I'm traveling again, touring the world one city at a time, one event at a time, one adventure to add to the collection of memories that trickle into my memory banks. Every public park I pass sets the simple stage for the play about to be performed in my thoughts. The people here, the everyday static people that reside while prospering and floundering make up the neighborhoods. They are the actors, partly due to the fact that they'll never be real to me, and the stories I create for them essentially flesh them out.
Last week I stood in another new city, waiting for lunch before heading back for my performance.
Six men in their early twenties sold deli sandwiches out of a cart near a playground. Why it took six of them to make a sandwich, I couldn't tell you, especially since they took fifteen minutes to get mine ready. I never got upset because the delicate balance of good days and bad days shouldn't rest on the mere preparation of provolone and roast beef. This gave me delightful insight, however, into the atmosphere. The men were all best friends since elementary, had soldiered on through all the miseries of childhood together and most likely, could not bear to be apart. They teased, poked and prodded while pulling my order at the register. I laughed.
I took the sandwich and tipped not according to level of service. Rather I tipped on the basis of how I envied their brotherhood, wishing I too could sit around and lounge. Never the case, I'm on a deadline. I need to eat, get the approriate calorie count and bounce back to the venue.
Eating near a playground isn't the safest place to be. You've got play lot sand, kites, toy cars and dolls and the like littering the area. No nannies here, the
COL [cost-of-living] barely lingers over the poverty line, so all you get is pure and pretty mothers dressed to enjoy the sunny weather with their children. A particular bunch caught my eye, setting a new scene for my play.
A redheaded toddler took a face-first dive into a sandpit, much to the surprising glee of her mother. Her mother donned a purple dress that loosely flowed past her knees and had a purple headband that kept her blonde, shoulder-length hair out of her eyes. She swooped her daughter up and in a one-two shake, dusted her off. The redheaded toddler blew sand off of her face and they both giggled.
The mother took her headband and placed it on her daughter's head, a gesture of protection. The daughter continued her playing and the mother sat adjacent at a bench, reading another Grisham novel.
I missed my daughter. I'm sure she was at a beach with real deal sand and real deal worries.
Why isn't my daddy here to teach me to skimboard? Why is he so tired from his trips? Will he like the frog I made for him, if I even get to give it to him?
Sometimes I wonder if this is where I'm supposed to be. Spending my Saturdays in different cities dancing to the beats of someone else's perspective, spinning to the sounds of surreal applause and approval, solely and sorely standing out in the crowd while wishing to be lost amongst them. The pain sticks, it sure as hell sucks, the discomfort of fatherhood can be culminated into my Sundays when instead of sleeping, I'm skimming the beaches with my daughter.
I finished my sandwich and wondered if the redheaded girl's father felt the same way I did, since he wasn't there with her at the park. Back to my play: The stage grows dark, the scene leaves you wanting more but it's time for the next act.
Curtain call, I'm up and ready to be at the venue. My left shoulder strained from an injury occurring at an 80's birthday bash in San Diego I performed at, my right hip aching from a mishap flip at a performance at Balboa Park but it doesn't matter, it never matters. I held onto my helmet and lightly touched the frog sticker my daughter placed on the front. It said I was terrific.
Time to prove it, I thought, as the curtain went up. The lights come on and the music is queued. In ten minutes I'll be finished, in thirty I'll be back at the hotel to change to dance at the after party and in less than 12 hours I'll be back home and be playing center stage.
Dat
Comments (1)
..Dat...! Still one of the greatest dads I know (..of)
Nina