14 April 2008
 
Small Town Sensibilities

I was Sunday-edgy all afternoon. Amazing how fast the weekend goes, even though I hunkered down in self-enforced isolation in the small town that is Big Pink. The invisible Girlfriend was more invisible than usual, and the weather had turned from balmy to chill, belying the brilliant green of the blossoms.
 
They were precisely the color of the jacket they award the winner of the Masters Tournament down in Augusta, Georgia.
 
On Sunday I normally don’t turn the television on afternoon, since that marks a symbolic crossing of the divide into the evening, and then the world of Monday but the Masters was on, and I wanted to see if Tiger Woods could pull off another miracle while going about my other businesses.
 
It is a little discouraging that there is so much to do, and with the economic uncertainty there was no time for church or other opiates, which slow down my typing. I wrapped up a chapter in the Shima Saga, which is about uncertainty and rapid change in the middle of another century. It is a bit of a cautionary tale about the costs of military adventurism, and the consequences of being unable to carry them off.
 
Not that it is not way cool to be the victor. But the price is extraordinarily high.
 
I suppose that is why this Presidential campaign has alienated me enough to take refuge in another century. Poor Senator Obama. I picked him to beat Senator Clinton months ago, and if I were a betting man, I would say that he still is on track to do so.
 
But Hillary seems to have her teeth into again. His remarks to the Democratic fundraiser last week was an interesting bit of candor. Since he was telling the truth, it is possible that he may slip up and do it again. He was talking about Red State-voters, and why they are bitter. He said they were “clinging to guns and religion,” and didn’t like illegal immigrants and free trade out of frustration with the economy.
 
It was completely understandable, if you did not understand who you were talking about. I cling to my guns and to my right not to have any particular religion because those are my rights, not because the bone-heads in my adopted home-town have sold the economy down the river. I cling to my Constitution because that is all that protects me from even more monstrous idiots.
 
I was sampling the air from the balcony when I smelled steak on the grill. I cannot see the Big Pink Official Gas Grill, since it is concealed behind the back wall of the pool enclosure. There have been only a few whiffs of chops and chicken through the winter months, since the walk to the elevator and then down the walkway to the pool is enough to deter most Pinkies.
 
A few more sniffs and the sound of one of the balcony doors closing made me realize the odor was coming from one of the units on the second floor on the western side of building. I had looked at the unit once, thinking I might pierce the ceiling above the poolside efficiency unit I owned and begin to expand upward.
 
The real estate bubble was expanding wildly then, and I feared I would never be able to afford a place with a real bedroom again if I did not act swiftly.
 
I could not get it together in time, though, and I am not sure what the Condo Association would have thought of my scheme to put a hole in the room.
 
The unit sold, first to an Asian family, and apparently it has changed hands again. I looked down from the end of my balcony at a younger man with a shaved head who was bending over a grill. He might have been in his late forties, just the sort of prime meat for a life change that Big Pink accommodates so well.
 
“Smells great!” I called out. I looked down to see if there was an extension cord for one of those electrical grills that may or may not be legal under the condominium by-laws. There was one of those little propane tanks visible through the grill in the middle of the concrete, so apparently he was cooking with gas.
 
He looked up with suspicion, uncertain of my motivation. He was clearly a man who enjoyed charring his food, just as I had been when I washed up at Big Pink.
 
“I’d be grilling, too, if it was permitted. Unfortunately, it is not. There is a community grill down by the pool,” I said, cheerily.
 
The man looked back at me, his face hardening as he poked at the grill with a set of tongs. Then he looked up and said: “Can you tell me if this stupid Apartment complex is run by Nazis or Communists?”
 
“Aren’t they the same thing?” I responded. “Hey, just a word to the wise. I won’t rat you out, but it is not permitted. The insurance risk from having propane in the structure is the reason.”
 
The man muttered something about that being the excuse for everything in the blankety-blank place, and I had to recall my days of getting to know the rules of having to get by in a shared living environment.
 
This guy seemed to think he was still king of his castle.
 
You have to live to learn, I suppose. I think I was a little bitter the first few years I was here, before I got a real bedroom with a real door.
 
It is a little disconcerting to have the amount of cash flowing through my bank account each month and not be able to keep any of it, between the Ex and her Evil Attorney. One gets used to it, in time, just as one must get used to not being able to grill a steak in the comfort and privacy of your own balcony.
 
There was a roar inside from the imaginary people in the television, and a South African guy named Trevor Immelman won the Masters, as the light was dying in the west. It looked quite pleasant there in Agusta. He beat Tiger by three strokes, which was a remarkable performance in itself, considering where he started. But it was not the prize.
 
The Grillmeister slammed the top down on his Weber and disappeared into his unit to dine alone.
 
Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra