from:
Our Year in Downtown Red
Yesterday’s sunshine and spectacular seventy degrees are replaced by rapidly plummeting temperatures and the forecast for Thanksgiving: a nor’easter that may include inches of snow. I hope that storm goes way out to sea, so travelers and families and friends can celebrate a happy holiday without worry about the weather and driving. Robert and I look forward to his lovely sister’s traditional Mayflower New England American hospitality in her warm and inviting home: a huge roast turkey with stuffing and gravy and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and dozens of side dishes and appetizers and a big dessert table with, of course, pumpkin pie and apple pie all served with love and cheer and thanksgiving. I’m about ready to burst into tears thinking about it, and what if the weather keeps me here alone in Active Town with our boxes of oatmeal and pasta and no family cheer and not much else, and that is a sad and terrible thought. Thanksgiving is the homiest holiday of the year, and I’m grateful that I’ve been welcome into the family fold since Robert and I met.
However, now after what seems only a foolish and expensive and unnecessary move, maybe they won’t like me anymore for disturbing the peace. This move bore fruit, thus far, of a few forced and bitter tears, days and nights of separation and loneliness and rejection, and a sour taste, but time will probably reveal something that I haven’t yet fully seen, perhaps, courage and conversion and a more grateful heart, a more loving human and humble heart, a heart that has become more discerning to the ways of the world. In my heart of hearts, I don’t think I’ll find a job here; I believe I have given up the search. We’ll see what unfolds. Robert and I plan on visiting the condo in Boring Town, and that boring town is beginning to seem more and more pleasant with its quiet town ways, away from the bustle and hustle of Active Town.
Now, with the update forecast, maybe it won’t be wise for Robert to travel home. Maybe it’ll be a tedious and hours long dangerous drive. Maybe he should stay up north, because there will be no place for him to park here—no room in the underground garage with Vincenzo’s three big outrageously expensive Ferrari, Lamborghini, Aston Martin . . . and maybe the ridiculous Hummer and The Boss’s Range Rover, and a “please don’t park here” for us.
The thought occurs to me that I am getting used to being alone. I’m getting used to years of unemployment, and I will survive, and I’ll survive the year without a Thanksgiving. Maybe I could show up at the community kitchen, yes, I might learn something there. I won’t go as a volunteer, I’ll go as a friendless and hungry and thirsty stranger, alone in America on the day Americans give thanks. I’ll go as one of the country’s unemployed citizens—one poor in spirit who has lost hope of ever getting a full-time job with benefits ever again. I’ll go naked, naked in aloneness, naked in crying for mercy, naked in mourning, naked in humility, naked in old age, naked into the great big homelessness of the unwanted manuscript—right into the slush pile of rejection. And when that’s all over, I’ll climb into my silver cloud and drive into my warm parking space in the heated underground garage . . . and call the wrap place across the street for a delivery of some turkey fire fingers, like I’m some big rock star. Then I’ll race down the street, spring into the bakery, jump over the counter, grab a big hunk of apple strudel, and distribute it to all the other friendless and hungry strangers.
