A hazy recollection of going back “home” (though not really home—presumably a hotel) and hunting through my disastrously floorstrewn suitcase for warmer clothes. En route, I puzzle over whether the blazer or the light fall jacket goes the outside: the obvious choice is jacket outside, but the jacket is shorter and tighter than the blazer and will look silly. At some point I explain to an acquaintance that I’m not always this disorganized—my clothes are home are stowed in very orderly fashion, I swear!—but the explanation itself is a distraction from a topic about which I’m even more embarrassed than the unkempt drifts of underwear and T-shirts.
Later: my flight home lands and my
family greet me. Dad looks young and hot. As I hug him hello, he asks immediately
about tomorrow’s plans; I reply that we’ll discuss... “logistics” (it takes me
as moment to find the word) presently. In the process of hugging Mom and Bob
there is a discussion going on and I end up hugging Bob twice by mistake— but I
make the second time look like “It was a helluva trip so I need another hug.”
We fly out again tomorrow, four of
us, maybe for a concert in Europe, to the aforementioned logistics are about
getting home, unpacking/repacking and getting back to the airport in the
morning. It is possible that in the course of our story one of the four travelers
morphs into Bob; or perhaps I am merely considering him as the best option for
car travel between Philadelphia and home tonight.
Meanwhile, there’s a party. We
haven’t left the airport but we are at somebody’s spacious and well-appointed
home. The bartender may be been a flight attendant: he was definitely on the
flight but also appears to be friends with nearly everyone at the party. He sets
up and announces shrimp cocktail on the rectangular island bar. This is actually
a single dish with 6 shrimp, but it’s just an overture: the gist is, when six
people claim those shrimp, he will make them drinks and set out more foods. While
I do not see Jeff Goldblum on the phone, this party is definitely shaded like
the Hollywood party in Annie Hall.
Heading outside to the patio,
there is some issue with the floor of the entryway—like a weak sport in the
floor disguised by carpet with woeful inefficiency. Henry and Jay Niepoetter
are here. (Is Henry one of the performers? Not clear.) Out by the pool, several
folks, including Dad and me, appear to be out of cigarettes. A young and very
popular friend who is almost certainly not Jude Law is handing some smokes out;
Dad rejects one that has wet spots and NJL selects a dry one to give him. I am
next on the dole, and I find myself unable to similarly reject a wet cigarette.
Once I have lit it with difficulty and torn the filter off and wrangled the remainder
into smokable shape, I mumble, “Dammit”. Dad says “What?” I explain about and
show off the shambles of a cigarette. NJL offers—or Dad offers to get from NJL?—a
dry one, but I decline. Because democracy! Cue Rudy Vallee: Dry cigarettes are
un-American!
While this cigarette distribution and
smoking is in process dad and NJL are talking about heritage and ethnicity. Dad
claims “Native American heritage, which my mother (?!) makes”, to which NJL
says, “Oh, I didn't realize she was dead.” Dad corrects himself: “Sorry, ‘made’.” I try to work out the semantics
of the tenses re the hereditary passage of identity, but I give up.
Back to logistics: While I had
postponed the discussion upon landing, the next several hours are quietly
vexing me. We’re flying in the morning but there’s at least some boat travel
implied. The four of us are sort of naturally, socially divided into two pairs,
and the other two are known to be planning to bring aboard a massive and varied
stash of recreational drugs. I contemplate whether I can safely bring along any
cannabis.
Then, as usual, there is a
cat whining at me.
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