That Rose? See, it’s a family tradition. Or some rule, someplace. Might even go back to a Spanish land grant, when Texas was still part of Spain. Whenever I amble up to Dallas, according to the family myth as perpetrated by Ma Wetzel, the rose bush in the backyard produces a yellow rose bud. That image was from last week, Xmas in Texas.
I worked long hours on Tuesday, doing maintenance chores at the apartments. I signed a renewal lease for one guy, and in doing so, I saved him hundreds of dollars. Did he tip me? No.
We got off on the subject of tips, the unique Austin tradition of a tip jar being everywhere, and he said he expected to see one on the self-serve salad bar some day. Keep Austin Weird.
The phone at the apartments stopped ringing at 2:30 PM, and I didn’t get any more queries about vacant units for the rest of the afternoon. The bookkeeper was trying to close out the year and in a bit of a distracted mode. The boss was trying to be helpful, but my guess is he was just annoying everyone. Well, not me, as I like the guy. Humor him, sometimes, even.
But my phone started buzzing at 4:30 and never stopped. Last minute readings, last minute plans, just about everything was incoming.
“Dude, I got an e-mail from the manager at the Yellow Rose, think we should go up there? Free admission!”
Not me. Last time I set foot in that club was when I was dating a Sagittarius who worked there, six years ago. Not my kind of place to hang out.
A Pisces, a Libra and an Aries neighbor all begged me to show them around a little, and New Years was the perfect time. Bubba bailed, so we just ambled up to 6th Street. Yee-haw. As the night wore on, we wound up back on 4th, at that Irish Pub. I’m afraid the sheer absurdist point of view is missed, when thinking about an Irish pub in Texas, but there it was. We hung around the door for a few minutes, and finally talked our way through the cover charge – it was after midnight – and I hung back, right by the front door because the place was noisy, crowded, and the scenery was better watching everyone coming and going. My friends all headed for the bathrooms.
I was standing there, all alone, lurking, when a form staggers from across the room, “Kramer! Eeee!” My Virgo friend. She totters over to me, in dress that was a little tight, mushes up against me, lays a faintly alcoholic kiss on my lips, and then I notice, behind her, two guys staring at her and me. And looking at her ass. She still had her arms around me, possibly a sign of affection, possibly for support. “I’m a little drunk. He.”
I whispered back in her ear, “Hold on a minute, let’s give them something to talk about,” and I patted her ass like I knew what I was doing. We exchanged a few words, and I summed up the upcoming astrological milieu for Virgo in a few short words: “Don’t hate me in January when nothing goes too well. Just wait. It’s going to be a good year. April, July, August, all good, 11 months. Just not January.”
