Our living room is tiny, furnished with two leather recliners and a dog bed. On our side tables sit our tablets, our preferred devices though our chairs face a large black flatscreen that dominates the room. Oh, yes, and there are house plants. They are my cats. I pet them and they purr green. In the morning, the man fills his stainless-steel coffee thermos, takes it to his chair and disappears into his personal screen while I take the dog for a walk. Today is the first day of school for the youngs. Two families on our block were posing their children in front of their garden for a commemorative photograph. Fresh outfits, bows in combed hair, new shoes, smiles with a missing tooth here and there. Even the parents are groomed, lipstick and hair goo at 7:30 in the morning. A little girl, too young for school, hugs her teddy bear and says to me, “I like your poodle.” I say, thank you, and she seems proud to have drawn a response from an adult. These are scenes that imprint on me. My neighbors recognize me because I walk my dog. We don’t know each other by name but being seen glues us together.
When Pete and I return from our walk, I go out to the courtyard to inspect the salvia he is torturing when he jumps after squirrels on the fence. The interspecies warfare between the squirrels and my dog is only somewhat amusing. Just yesterday I hugged that plant and praised her blossoms. Today, I tossed her branches into the compost pile. Such is life. In the kitchen, my cohabitant is already refilling his big gulp. In boxers and a t-shirt, he has his back to me while he pours. I run my hand along his bare leg. “You have such beautiful legs,” I say. In his most regal Shakespeare, he replies, “I have the legs of a god.” Then the god goes back to his recliner to play solitaire on his tablet. A while later he cheers for himself. “I’ve just did my personal best!” Ah, yes. It’s a game he plays alone against the machine. I imagine a colorful burst of cartoon text that blinks at him and squirts dopamine. “Congratulations! You beat the clock!” And I think, isn’t that what we’re all doing? Trying to beat the clock.
The light is getting shorter and we are going to the park earlier in the evening to walk ourselves and the dog. In years past, we walked together at night around our neighborhood. Then this summer a new community park opened five minutes from our house. The park landscaping is lovely with gardens between paths for strolling and wheels, and the playground is magical with interactive rigs, swings, slides, ladders and tunnels over cushioned turf. There is a separate section of very small rides for toddlers with a sandbox, and tomtom drums and musical pipes with mallets, and a water fountain that sprays mist in the air. We have been going to this park on most evenings for the past few months to watch parents and children play outside, squeaky voices and power shrieks, competitive banter, hide-and-seek, running to nowhere on new legs for the joy of it. Their exhilaration is our exhilaration. We soak up the vibe for an hour, long enough for Pete to exercise off-leash and maybe socialize with other dogs or kids who want to pet him. Our park ritual is our meditation. Things are good here.
Doesn’t it sound weird to say that? The world is messy. Things are good here. When we go to the park, we witness humans unplugged. We feel ourselves unplugged. We socialize with new people, dog lovers and dog walkers. Okay, not everyone is unplugged. Or maybe that’s an old metaphor. We notice kids on new wheels, electric and effortless. Evidently, no one is too young to go fast and furious. This scares the shit out of us. We compare thoughts on falling off an electric skateboard and decide to save that experience for our next life. I found an abandoned pair of teeny-tiny green socks in the sandbox. They were so small, little green teabags with pink ladybugs. I wanted to put them in my pocket; a secret stash of charms that made me glitter. How silly is that? Instead, I left them on a picnic table and thought about being so small and so free that I could take off my socks and forget them. I wish my feet were inspired to remember the good times.
Last week there was a group of men and boys, a few dozen of them, olds mixed with midlifes, tweens and teens, all playing kickball at the park and cheering each other. Kickball. The game was a flashback for us. We both played kickball when we were kids in Illinois. Seeing so many males engaged in play reminded us that fun is free. We make it for ourselves. Without us, it’s just a ball. The park is an empty space where people come to make fun for themselves. We notice how many ethnicities are represented on the playground and it pleases us. If they feel safe, we feel safe. Humans are the glue that holds this place together. We make our own vibe, and when the sun sets, we take that vibe home with us. We are the lucky ones. Things are good here.
‘We are the lucky ones. Things are good here.’ Ain’t that the truth. Also lucky that we won’t be around the the shit is too big for the fan. Sammy and his new wife are in Hawaii. The lucky ones now trying to decide to have kids or not to have kids. So enormous a question. But they’ll fully decide together. They are aces at communicating with each other about all things light hearted and all things difficult. Seems a valid union. They are the lucky ones. All of us mostly have some version of that that feels warm. Even in the face of any approaching storm save any AI immolation. I wonder how I’d fare in a real dystopia. I am a lucky one. Love you, Bil.