Not In My Kitchen.

It’s hard to try to summarize, but in short – here it is: my roommates are each intelligent and dependable in his own right; they are unique in unique ways that are too minutely attached to the tiny details of one’s persona to ever take an accurate stock of.

In one of them (“Dice”), I can have complete faith regarding the maintenance of my car, for example; this same roommate would also be the one I would turn to with a jammed rifle, any kind of measurement, centralized heating and cooling issues, and/or the use or instructions for use of any power tool imaginable; I trust this roommate much more so than I trust 9 out of 10 human beings on a very generalized basis because of the years’ worth of water under our bridge as friends without any drama or bullshit at all; he is a kind person with a good heart, in spite of himself; his is also the sole hand that touches the BBQ grill in my household. We share things like The Walking Dead, LOTR, reggae music, good weed and being recluse in common. This roommate is Persian (Iranian) by blood, born in the US to parents who emigrated here during the 1960’s.

The other roommate (“The Orphan”) is the one who I can query at random with a wide ranging interrogative and receive generally sound answers from; he was also my sky-diving instructor, so there’s a very weird kind of trust between this roommate and myself despite our sometimes volatile relationship; he is a surf buddy, a swim buddy and as some of you may remember – got here as my adopted orphan, who was a suicidal train wreck on the other side of the globe when we first became friends. He has been here over 2 years now, has healed his spirit well, got his citizenship, has a good job and a cute little girlfriend; and is doing shiningly in comparison to what he once was. He is also a former French Military Special Forces Paratrooper who has an uncanny comprehension of all things tactical and military. We share things like the Unsecret Death Wish, the ocean, raunchy jokes and coffee in common.This roommate is Corsican by blood (which is French by nationality), raised in Germany, and is a French National with German and American citizenship.

The three of us can happily sit around our kitchen table at a meal and discuss pretty much anything in an amiable, if not jovial, manner. Typically, this is the case. Tonight, things became heated between them during a (take a guess) political disagreement. I came out into the kitchen and said,

“C’mon you guys…really, you’re gonna let Trump or whoever ruin our BBQ?” in a joking tone to lighten the tension (because that’s who I am, the peacemaker), only to find out that they were bumping heads about the tragedy in France.

It was pretty disturbing to me, as I proceeded to listen to the Orphan vehemently arguing his point to Dice with true passion; such a final and decisive reaction he is having that he feels as if it has come to the point where mass preemptive murders via the military would be the only answer. To hear the guy whose military experience has unfailingly spoken truths upon truths thus far say such a thing was deeply unsettling; and left a nasty taste in my mouth.

Lily Lives!

It’s been quite some time since I planted anything new (I don’t farm ganja at home) in the front or back yard at my house; this is because I live with men who would sooner park the shell of a Studebaker over a patch of green than to water it and help keep it alive. The gardening aspect of what used to be two of my favorite places to spend my time has all but vanished in the face of what has gradually become the likes of a junkyard. I can barely stand to look outside in the back anymore.

Last month when we had a few gnarly wind storms, our side-back fence ate shit onto our side between ourselves and our neighbor (an awesome human being who happens to be a federal police officer and an Iraq War veteran, for the record), smashing and demolishing anything green still standing, including the last stem of sentimental gardening remaining to me. It was a huge prize-winning and quite mutant-esque flower: my Burnt Orange Easter Lily that I planted within weeks of moving in here with Dice over five years ago. In time, it had become one of my best kept secrets and thrived in the face of all the destruction, automobile chemicals, and various dogs with the tendencies to dig.

I will admit to being deeply bothered by the sight of the fence collapsed into rubble atop of the strip of yard where my lily had lived. I dared not say a thing though, because I repeatedly fall into the mindset that my boys don’t pay particular attention to my wishes or desires when it comes to most things; why waste the breath? Dice finally put the finishing touches on the reconstructed fence yesterday afternoon. I had jokingly commented that he took long enough to put up the lattice over there on the side yard, as he had been over there noisily doing things for several hours after the last piece had gone up.

This morning, I awoke exceptionally late (for me) from a night full of terror and horrid nightmares; and I went out back with my coffee to begin to shake off the high-speed wobbles that such a night unfailingly bring. I was so happily surprised to see that I was wrong in being certain all this time that Dice has no clue about my sense of loss behind my final patch of garden being wiped off the landscape. Dice is good this way, as this isn’t the first time he has shocked me speechless through an unspoken action that tells of his attention paid to the things I say in passing when I am sure that nobody is listening.