One week and two cigars.
I dug through the accumulated cigar collection, and I found me a “Gloria.” So I had a dark-skinned Cuban for breakfast. “La Gloria Cubana” was her name.
I turned off the e-mail so I could get some work done, too. Seems like a lot of folks were a little tense, too. More than I needed.
When I finished that sweet Cubana number, I switched to a lighter skinned Dominican Republic number. Older, too, as that one has been in the humidor for five or more years now. Aged to perfection. That one was really excellent.
From Shady Acres, it was uphill to meet client for a quick chart overview – Saturn was the big deal. What was supposed to be a few minutes stretched into several hours, sweltering lightly in the shade at Jo’s. She was talking about a certain guy when there was a tap on her shoulder, there he was. Glad to see I still have the touch to bring luck to others.
From there, I hopped over to Barton Creek, just below the springs. I was about to be mildly upset because some gentleman was just getting out at my spot, fins, mask, snorkel in hand. I just hate it when other people use my little section of creek for their swimming. The water’s been exceptional clear the last couple of days. No doubt, this is due to the fact that school has started.
“Find anything worthwhile?” I asked.
“Not this time. Saw a catfish, about this long, out in the middle. Couple of bass, too.” (This long was about four feet, judging from his arms’ spread.)
Which then launched into the nicest discussion of wildlife in Texas, and from the ranch he grew up on in Fort Bend County, complete with alligators.
“But there’s nothing here in Austin that’ll hurt you,” he tried to assure me.
Then came the gator story. Two, in fact. One I’ll save for a scope, and one of them had all the earmarks of an urban myth, something about an 8-foot gator who was eating pets on a local area lake. As if.
A little BBQ, actually read the newspaper, too. While I was paying the bill, my cell buzzed, and I looked at the number, and even though it’s incredibly rude, I figured it was a good time to answer. So I did.
“Hey sweetie.” (Okay! So I don’t recall the exact words, but that sounds about right for greeting a Pisces who’s been a little distressed about issues lately, right? Right.)
“You’re alive? Amy said there was a fatality on the railroad, and I know you were going to walk this way on the right-of-way, and I was worried it was you. But you’re alive?”
Leaves room for a host of theological and tautological discussion points about the relative “aliveness” that I represented at that very moment, but I had, indeed, just eaten a bellyful of BBQ, and I was relatively sanguine from a cold dip in the creek and a refreshingly weird afternoon, so I didn’t launch into the mental gymnastics that I was thinking about the whole point of whether I was alive or not.
“Could be debated.”
“Kramer, you answered your phone, you’re alive. See you in a little while.”
Then I set off for the “blogger meetup”, making my way up the aforementioned railroad right-of-way. In the afternoon, my shorts still slightly damp from the creek, it almost felt cool. The route I took avoids all the heavy traffic streets. Made for a nice wander.
Hung about with the writers. Listened to geek speak. Spoke some. As the meeting began to break up, I had to implore, one more time, that I really do live like a monk.
I copped a ride as far as Amy’s, with a half cup of coffee in hand, I convinced the night guy (Aries) to just add a scoop of ice cream to the half cup of coffee. Just somehow balanced everything out perfectly. Home. To work. To bed.
“It’s just this little chromium switch here.”
