12:43 AM d
After an evening of vapid conversation and pointless chat - T, C, K, DW (sigh) - was thinking about the black man. So I called. And got this message saying he was in the hospital and wouldn't be able to pick up his messages.
I was stunned. Upset. Worried. Wondering was it his back again, or something else. And knowing how he hates to lose his independence.
Then something told me to call again, to listen to the message again. This time it was the plain old "Leave a message" message. Huh?
I hung up. And the phone rang.
It was him. Seems he'd had a double hernia repair (ouch! I had an inguinal - read GROIN - hernia repair 7 years back, and it was a hot mess); he was recuperating on campus for a bit, then he'd be going to his mother's in SAC.
We chatted and laughed, of Vicodin, and shuffling to the bathroom, having your stomach stapled down, and gearing oneself up for rolling over. Of my work, yes I'm still at it, and how I'm in his mom's neighborhood all the time, and maybe I should drop by and visit when he's there and I'm there. And etc.
And how he hasn't yet found that perfect bottom to take care of him.
I asked if he missed me. He said yes - of course.
But that could've been the drugs.
No matter. I'm glad he's well, er, well enough.
He's a mess. Yes, but still the most interesting, entertaining mess I've met in a while.