This table also holds, ridiculously, a 2.62 oz. thing of McCormick' Hot Shot Black and Red Pepper.
I do not sit at this table as much as I imagined I would when I set it up in here. It shakes a bit under even the slightest activity, which makes writing onto those papers a , slipping, skidding adventure.
This is, of course, the table at which my family and I played board games and card games. As such the memories of this table are not altogether pleasing, but I guess my memory is selective at times.
I am laying low these days. These are the first days in months that I have not gone out to some place for some level of human contact. The other night was ridiculous. I went to one place, as soon as I walked in people were buying me drinks, buying me drinks, buying me drinks. I wasn't laying attention to how many I had, but I felt OK when I left that place and went to another. It was the same thing at that place. For some reason anywhere I went people were buying me drinks, buying me drinks.
It was a suicidal quantity of booze. I spent the next day feeling like a toxic sponge, with no let-up in the misery from waking up at 11am to going back to sleep 12-13 hours later.
There are, it turns out, a lot of productive things I can do in that condition. Mainly I play piano. Somehow that part of the brain gets a pass and functions just fine. I practiced from Bach's Well Tempered Clavier for much of the day.
I removed the Hot Shot thing of pepper to a less conspicuous place. The table, those blank pages, those things are my mental desert for the night's wanderings.
I got the expected mail from my mother today. I was amused to see that she used two 37¢ stamps to mail a small letter. Those stamps, of that denomination, must be several years old by now, since the standard postage rate went up to 42¢ very recently.
I had a strange encounter with a postal delivery guy a few weeks ago. I went to a corner mailbox intending to drop some envelopes in. A delivery guy was at the box, taking mail from it and placing it into his bag for delivery.
Somehow I could tell from the look in his face that, as he saw me coming, that he waas happy to see me. He welcomed this opportunuity to interact with a postal customer,and to demonstrate his expertise.
Without asking he took the enveloppes from my hand. One of them, rather heavy, had I-don't- know-how-many stamps on it. He looked at it and weighed it. He weighed in the trustworthy, scientific manner of holding it up in the air. Holding the envelope he calculated the postage liability, assessing the job I did preparing this envelope for delivery, and preparing his evaluation of how delivery-ready this package was.
It passed. He approved. The same thing happened with another similarly sized envelope. Several seconds of weighing the thing, studying it, checking for openings or tears. Then, congratulatory glances my way as he approved this envelope for delivery.
Success.
Then came the third envelope. The smallest of the three, it contained a three page document. Three pieces of paper, plus the envelope. Doing my own calculations I estimated that a single Forever Stamp would be sufficient for such a standard size letter.
The delivery guy disagreed. He looked at me and frowned, saying "ooooooh, this needs more postage. I can't take this." I expressed some disbelief, though I found his charade charming enough that I did not want to intrude on his opportunity to hold court. I sensed he seldom had this opportunity to give customers feedback, and I further sensed that he craved this interaction. I gathered that he was fed up with the half-ass job his customers do of sealing envelopes poorly, not applying enough postage, leaving the Plus-4 numbers off the zip codes, and other sins of the postal life.
He insisted that 41¢ was insufficient postage for a three page letter. An elderly man looked at me and said "What can you do?" I think he added "He's the boss."
I ended up paying 82¢ to mail a three page letter. I went home, found another stamp, and placed it on the envelope. I thought about putting 10 or 12 stamps on this envelope, to show this delivery guy how seriously I took his scoldings. I imagined that the act of overpaying for delivery of my letter might appease the failings of his many other customers who irked him so.
It was ludicrous, but I suppose most of us are prone to foisting our expertise onto others when the setting seems to call for it.
It reminded me of the insane round of questioning I got from one of the clerks at the Rockefeller Center station. Someone addressed a certified letter to me in a way that put my father's name first on the envelope. I was listed as Trustee of his estate, but the estate was listed first, leaving my name on the second line of the address. The clerk implied that I could go to jail for this, then asked me, among other things, "Where's your father now?" I responded "Who cares where is, he's dead." She considered that an insufficient reply, then she barked out other random questions, meaningless to the situation, and obvious grasps for authority.
The questions suddenly stopped. She either realized she was wrong and let me have the letter, or she honestly believed she had just spared me criminal charges.
I read that Elvis, toward the end of his life, was in the studio recording virtually 24 hours a day. Why? Because it was the only place in his life where he felt he had any control.
I these these postal clerks were in that frame, seeking control over something -- anything -- in their lives.
This table shakes even as I type onto this little thing. I try to type lightly enough to prevent the shaking. Rattling.
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