Back at It

Fred is burning newspaper inserts on his front porch. “I’ve got to keep these mosquitos off me.” He asks me where I’m off to and how I’m headed there. I’m going to Michael’s friend’s place. James, a third-year law student at GW, has moved into the upper level of a brick row house near Shaw. It’s a house warming. “By bike.” My Cannondale flatted out over a glass patch a few days ago and might need new tires. It’s down at the shop. CaBi it is.

My mind is far from James.

We’re back at it, she and I. The old adages apply. Cats and dogs. Two who tango. The sun and the moon, in romantic moments. On a cool Saturday afternoon over a patchy phone connection we’re something else. Eggshell hearts balanced on spoons held by pursed lips, racing to a catastrophe we blithely cheer.

So when Michael calls I’m relieved. “My buddy Ed—a mid-English guy—is hosting drinks at Union Market or we could head to James’ place.” James’ it is. We meet at a packie off 8th. I grab a sixer of Narraganset tall boys and get upcharged $11.99 for something that’s $7.99 at the Giant near my place. Michael tries to toss a pack of orange-flavored Trident to the register before I close out but he’s too late. He pays for it himself.

We stroll up to 602, where two guys wait on the cast-iron steps up to the top floor. Within seconds they identify themselves as Northwestern men. Michael and I glance at each other. Before our arrival, James texted Michael, “It’s gonna be small, lots of my friends are out of town before school starts.” James opens the door. There are nine men present, two of whom wear Hawaiian shirts. There are no women. I’m introduced to someone who went to Cambridge Rindge & Latin. He says AB had the best gymnastics gym. A German man working for SAP complains that a Hinge date didn’t enjoy his lecture on bureaucratic digitization. “Don’t get me stared on my controversial opinions. The pandemic, for example,” he adds. He’s wearing a black t-shirt blazoned, “It’s okay if you don’t agree with me: I can’t force you to be right.” Michael and I don’t accept his invitation to argument.

Michael and I tuck into the Narragansets and debate stable-coins. We argue in circles. Three women along with two men, whose sunglasses mark them as surely as Cain, enter the apartment. At a later juncture we talk, the men are high school friends from Lexington, Virginia. The first is a Marine, stationed down at Quantico. We talk about Mallow’s Bay. The other is in med school but then concedes he did five years in the Air Force. One of their friends is named Emily. She’s a teacher at a KIPP school in NE. I share my volunteer experience at a KIPP in Nashville. She pauses the party to point out that the German mans shorts match James’ Hawaiian shirt. The similarity is uncanny.

I’ve run out of desire to type. It’s near midnight.

I go home. I get scammed by my local kebab shop, which just changed ownership. The previous owner was an honorable man. He’d lie to my face and admit he did it—all with a smile and a story. The new family won’t even provide a receipt.

By the time I get back, Fred’s inside though his hand radio still plays. As I’m typing this I know he’s back out there. I can hear him hawking loogies in a worrying fashion. It’s a matter of great concern. One of many such matters if you’re tuned in.