Saturday night I sit in my laundry, reading a Robert B. Parker detective yarn, waiting for my clothes to dry. A young woman walks in with a poodle she treats like a child. I put down the book to rest my eyes. I hadn’t been sleeping well. It had been a long day of errands, a gym workout, and a trip to Manhattan, fighting through shoppers.
After the woman dumped her clothes into the dryer, it occurred to me I could have petted the damn dog and opened a conversation with her. Then I realized I had 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 was possibly the fourth most impressive looking woman I’d ever seen, falling somewhere in between Lena Horne and Jessica Biel. Blonde, six feet in knee high leather boots, painted on jeans, she strode past me to the dryers. I sat, hands folded, praying for a blackout so I could take charge, safeguard the clothes, impress the hell out of both these women.
The guy pets the dog while Goddess empties her dryer. Within seconds they were gone. I try to catch her eye as she flies 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 people 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’ll close my eyes; listen to Joe Lee Wilson singing like smooth brandy and soon all the world’s friction vanishes.
Somewhere around ten, the gig ends. People hang around, meeting musicians, buying CDs, finishing off snacks. I 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.
I drove through the night, visions of the laundry blonde flitting before me, right up until I pulled into my space, got out and walked inside my condo.
I suppose some might consider this a waste of a Saturday night. Maybe. But I guess I’ve reached the point where I’m content to quietly sip champagne with smaller bubbles, close my eyes and remember. – Joe Del Priore