The Disastrous Nap
Serious people have a sense of humor.
Serious people have a sense of humor. This is my conclusion.
It’s all the wisdom you’re getting from me, this day or ever. Not that I’ve ever had any. I don’t want wisdom. It implies I know better. I don’t.
What a ridiculous day. I blame the disastrous nap.
I just cannot delve into my terror about the house again. But as it’s been all-encompassing for two weeks, what else to write?
In fairness, I did have another idea for an essay. I was going to call it,
How Obama and Biden Vandalized the Reflecting Pool.
It would be fun, imagining Barack Obama and Joe Biden dressed up in ninja outfits. They lose their Secret Service details and drive down Daniel French Drive SW in a 1968 Camaro. They get to the reflecting pool and spike it with algae. Obama would say to Biden,
“Easy on the chlorophyll, Joe, we want it to be believable!”
Then we cut to the day after as they watch cable TV from a Motel 6, howling with laughter at the bright green, with Biden saying,
“When I’m right, I’m right! Am I right?”
And Obama, in his forever reasonable and sonorous tone, would reply,
“I must admit, Joe, you were right.”
They crack open a six-pack of Miller High Life from their tiny refrigerator to celebrate.
They wouldn’t stop there. Because they’re so successful, they take another day of freedom and vandalism. They call Laura Bush on their satellite phone to ask her to reassure their wives they’re not in Guantanamo. Mrs. Bush replies,
“Gladly. And give ‘em hell, boys. Although Michelle is going to kill you, Barack, and I don’t think Dr. Biden is going to be too happy either, Joe.”
She adds,
“I’m not saying a word to George because it would hurt his feelings you didn’t ask him to come along.”
Joe would then explain it’s nothing personal, but an act of vandalism of this magnitude can only come from the two most hated people in the president’s mind.
Why do they call Laura Bush instead of their wives directly? Because they are afraid of their wives, as all men with any sense should be.
On Day Two of the Vandalism Tour, giving it much thought, they decide to try and scrape up some of the American Flag Blue paint.
“Joe,” says Barack. “How are we going to do this? I don’t know about you man, but I don’t want to get in that water. It would put us both in the hospital if we ingest it.”
“Come on, man,” says Joe. “Let’s be wild!”
After a bit of back and forth, they decide to do some recon. Under the dark of night, they slip back into their ninja costumes, knives at their hips. They get back in the Camaro. Biden insists on driving this time, telling Obama just because he’s younger doesn’t mean he gets to have all the fun, and he learned to drive on a stick shift, thank you very much.
As they crawl on their bellies to the pool, they finally approach the edge. Obama feels something under his hand.
What’s this? Could it be a paint chip? Has the algae done the work for them?
Yes, that’s what I was going to write. Something like that.
Then I realize if I title it like that, there will be people in the country who take it seriously. Members of MAGA might think it happened. JD Vance will call for the arrest of the former presidents. The essay would wind up on QAnon sites. I’d probably be arrested by the administration for colluding with the enemy—the enemy in Trump’s mind.
You have to admit it could happen.
The thought depresses me, because here we are.
I won’t just catch flak from The Right, either. I’ll get it from The Left as well. I’ll be told in no uncertain terms I shouldn’t spread fake news.
Serious people have a sense of humor. Others don’t.
After spending fifteen days clearing out my late mother’s house, and no, I am not finished, I travel home on Amtrak yesterday. I do not run into Joe Biden, which is a bit of a disappointment, as I ride the same train he does and have done so just as long as he has.
I write on the train. It’s the best uninterrupted five hours I ever get. I pop on my noise-canceling headphones and let it rip.
But I get on the train and can’t think of a damned thing.
Actually, I think of three hundred things. They float around in my head, but nothing is organized. I decide to check if it’s my turn to play Crossplay online with my friend Darcy.
I play for hours. We have four different games running. Suddenly, I’m in New York City.
I’m happy as a clam in my cab, having a delightful conversation with the driver Ahmed. He is thirty-five. We trade ages, and when he tells me I look ten years younger I’m pleased, especially as I haven’t done my hair or makeup.
We talk about the dangers of driving after a pedestrian jaywalks across the middle of 42nd Street into our direct path.
“Coming out of a parking spot is the worst,” I say. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve backed up, and somebody is just stepping behind my car while crossing the street.”
He agrees, although he says left turns are most dangerous.
Then I tell him I’d been hit by a bus making a left turn, and two different friends had been hit by trucks and seriously injured. I say I try to remember when driving not to let myself get distracted, that I’m operating heavy machinery.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for reminding me not to get distracted.”
The thing about New York City is you can have a moving conversation with someone in just a few minutes.
I walk into Grand Central and can’t believe my eyes.
Oh, the World Cup. It’s 1:00 in the afternoon, and more crowded than rush hour on a Friday.
I’d just told some young French men on the train they couldn’t talk on the Quiet Car. I told them in French, which surprises them. One could forgive anyone for thinking all Americans are idiots right now.
I get to my train after giving up on the long lines to the bathroom.
I may just be exhausted.
When the alarm goes off at 5 am yesterday morning I can barely open my eyes, although I’d been waking up at 3:30 or 4:00 every morning for two weeks. I organized myself well for the morning, but it took every minute I’d allowed to get myself ready.
Tammy picks me up at 6:25 to take me to the train. She refuses to let me spend money on Uber no matter how early I leave. She has a steaming pint of coffee for me, as strong as espresso.
I love being in the car with her. She is the only human on earth I willingly let drive. I know how much she likes it.
When we’re in the car together there is still the whiff of being sixteen years old.
When we were teenagers, I drove Tammy and my brother to school every morning in my orange Opel. We put the Stones Tattoo You in the cassette recorder without fail.
We started each day with Start Me Up.
When we get to the train station Tammy says,
“Is that Josie?”
I call Tammy the mayor, as she knows everyone in Fredericksburg. But I know Josie too. Tammy walks with me to the platform and we talk to Josie and her lovely daughter.
I’ll write on the train, I think.
I do not.
It’s hard to wake up today, too, but I have a doctor’s appointment in the city at 9:45.
To my utter amazement, I’m not late, even though I leave at 8:30. I forgot how light summer traffic is. All the rich people are in the Hamptons, or wherever they go now.
When I walk up Fifth Avenue by the park, I feel almost giddy. I think about taking a long walk as the weather is so fine, but I really must write.
I arrived in the city at exactly this time of year forty-five years ago. It was right after Father’s Day. My mother brought me up here and got me acclimated, then returned to Virginia to care for my dying father. I studied at Stella Adler that summer.
I will never forget the feeling I had my first couple of weeks here. Seeing Gilda Radner in a black leather miniskirt and Chuck Taylors, laughing with Robin Williams as they walked down Broadway. Spending all my food money on a hot pink dress I found on 14th Street and being condemned to Kraft Macaroni and cheese at .69 cents a box for the rest of the month. Walking everywhere, as I’d ignored my mother’s careful instructions about the bus.
The feeling of being young and in the city is solid gold. I feel it today and am glad.
I get stuck in traffic on the way home for no reason at all.
I intend to make a beeline for my beautifully renovated office as soon as I get home. It looks fantastic.
I’ve been meaning to paint it the same color as my dressing room for years—Bonne Nuit by Benjaman Moore. Because I’m bringing up furniture from Virginia, now is the time.
I clear it out. Secret Service helps me paint one Saturday, which means he paints while I try not to make too much of a mess. While I was away, he pulled up the carpet and the hundreds of staples in the floor. When I walk in last night, the gorgeous wood floor gleamed.
I am so happy with it. But instead of heading to the office, I realize I haven’t eaten in—a long time.
Food’s low on the priority list lately. I’m suddenly starving.
I open the fridge and my fate is sealed. I know it’s a fatal mistake but can’t help it. I make a quesadilla with some sharp cheddar.
It puts me into what Secret Service calls a cheese coma. This is why people tell you to eat breakfast, so you don’t go into a cheese coma on the day you write.
Well, you know what happens. The disastrous nap follows.
There are people in the world who are good nappers. I am not one of them.
I just don’t get it. I love sleeping, but I don’t understand falling asleep in the middle of the day only to get up again. I’m bad enough at waking up the first time.
It’s unavoidable, though. Cheese coma must be satisfied.
I set my alarm for 1 pm. I had to run to the drugstore, but that would take twenty minutes. By 2 pm, I’d be in my beautiful new office. I can get the essay done.
When the alarm goes off, I swear to you: I do not know where I am.
I realize I’m not in Virginia. I remember that if the house sells, there will come a time when I’ll never be in the house again.
Incredibly, this made me sad. After the past two weeks sadness makes no sense at all. I don’t want to write about sadness. Maybe if I pick up my scripts, I’ll know what to write when I get home.
I can barely move. Again, I do not understand napping. Waking up is terrible.
I drive to CVS and think about all the caffeinated drinks I need. Coffee and tea and a Coca-Cola to wash them down.
I get to the drugstore at 1:35, and the pharmacy part of the store is shuttered. They close for lunch from 1:30-2:00.
I am never getting an essay done. I need to stop writing; I am a failure. And if I stay in the store a half hour, I’ll buy a bunch of makeup I don’t need. I leave.
I go back to my car and drive the seven minutes it takes to get home. I call a friend to tell them the day is ruined, and I don’t know what to write.
To think I’d been practically skipping up 5th Avenue this morning. That damned nap.
The friend asks me if I know the song by Chicago,
25 or 6 to 4.
I am not a fan of Chicago.
He hums a few bars.
Oh, I say. Duh-duh-duh duh duh, duh duh duh duh…
Exactly. Listen to that.
But it’s a Chicago song, I say.
Listen to it, he repeats. It’s about having to get a song done by 4 in the morning, and he’s looking at the clock…
Is my life reduced to listening to Chicago for meaning? Truly the bottom of the barrel.
I listen.
Fine. If they can write a song with this much energy about not knowing what to write, I can write an essay.
After all, serious people have a sense of humor.
Delightful, introspective, meaningful (like everything you write). You always make me smile. Thank you :)
I reckon the first part would make a wonderful script for an Iran inspired lego video