In over my head

I think Eliot wrote Prufrock for me—at least that’s the way I feel most days—Dare I disturb the universe?

I’m your everyday anti-hero—measuring out my life with coffee spoons—watching ticker tape parades down Wall Street.

But I’d have leaped from the windows myself in the Twenties—just like the rest of the sheep.

Ernst & Hamby may feel I’m some kind of crinkled wunderkind, but I’m well past forty and frankly, losing my edge.

I don’t enter into deals with reckless abandonment. I play it safe. After all, I’ve got Linda at home, two kids and another on the way.

I’m settled and sensible—well, trying to be, at least.

Nothing in my calm, placid universe can rock me any more—or, so I thought, until the other day.

It had been a rough night. The twins were colicky and our nerves were frayed. As soon as Roger quieted, Adam would start.

It was driving me insane.

I kept looking at the blue digits on the clock—why the hell I chose blue is beyond me—and I began thinking how lucky dead people were.

My life had turned out to be an urban cliché.

In two hours, I’d navigate through toys to the bathroom, unglue my bleary eyes under a warm shower and eat the same breakfast I’ve eaten every day of my life—tea and toast.

Walter Schmidt—this is your life.

There had to be more than this.

It was still dark when I opened the front door and tripped over the flowers.

What the hell was Linda up to now?

A dozen red long stemmed roses. Had she lost her mind? Our credit card was maxed to the limit.

I gathered up the partially trampled bouquet. A small card fell out. I picked it up, and held it up to a patch of light trembling through the Maples.

To Walter, From Your secret Admirer.

An icy fear washed over me. What if the flowers weren’t from her? How could I know?

I could picture myself showing her the bouquet and seeing her harried expression—They’re not from me.

What then?

Things were turbulent enough without rocking the boat.

But if they were from her and I didn’t acknowledge them, what then?

It was a conundrum.

I resolved to place the gift-wrapped roses on the kitchen counter and wait for her to phone me. Then, I’d work off her reaction.

If she thanked me, I’d pretend they were a gift for her.

If she gave them to me, and asked why I left them wrapped on the counter, I’d say I was in a rush and running late—but would thank her profusely.

Having settled the matter as best I could, I drove to work.

My greatest resource had been my inventiveness—it had gotten me to where I was. It would get me out of this mess.

To be continued

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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