Saturday night I sit in my Weehawken laundry reading a Robert B. Parker detective yarn, waiting for my clothes to dry. A young woman walks in with a poodle whom she treats like a child. I put down the book to rest my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping well. It has been a long day of errands, a gym workout, and a trip to Manhattan, fighting through shoppers.
After the woman dumps her clothes into the dryer, it occurs to me I could have petted the damn dog and opened a conversation with her. Then I realize I have wet socks older than this dame – what would be the point? A few minutes later, the door opens and another woman walks in, followed by a young man. She is possibly one of the most impressive looking women I’ve ever seen, falling somewhere between Lena Horne and Maria Sharapova. Blonde, six feet tall in knee-high leather boots, wearing painted-on jeans, she strides past me to the dryers. I sit there, hands folded, praying for a blackout so I can take charge, safeguard the clothes, and impress the hell out of both of these women. The guy pets the dog while Goddess empties her dryer.
Within seconds they are gone. I tried to catch her eye as she flew past – it was like filleting a flame. Later, I’m at Miller Library in Jersey City waiting for one of their free jazz concerts to begin. I often do this on Saturdays now. It’s not in a great area and parking is on the street, but those in charge are unfailingly friendly and the music is high-quality.
I make myself a decaf tea, grab some cookies, sit at a corner table centered by a tiny candle, and in the dim light, listen to the sax man warm up. No one knows me here. I can relax without having to make conversation. I close my eyes to listen to Joe Lee Wilson singing like smooth brandy flowing, and soon all the world’s friction vanishes.
Somewhere around 10 p.m. the gig ends. People hang around, meeting the musicians, buying CDs, and finishing off the snacks. I prefer to just leave.
Driving down Kennedy Boulevard I pass a diner where not so long ago I sat across from a woman wearing a precisely angled beret, who listened intently to my nonsense while light played jumping jacks in her eyes and she flashed a smile that made me feel I was in a room full of helium. That was then.
I drive through the night, visions of laundry blonde flitting before me, right up until I pull into my space, get out, and walk inside my condo.
I suppose some might consider this a waste of a Saturday night.
But I guess I’ve reached the point in my life where I’m content to quietly sip the champagne, with perhaps smaller bubbles, close my eyes, and remember. – Joe Del Priore
Send your essays to: current@hudsonreporter.com.