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.

Hint, hint.

So tired have I grown…

my eyes finding your trash piles;

this ain’t a hotel…

Never have I known…

such a snake behind a smile;

you don’t fit here well.

Painful Pinches and Smiles.

Okay…

It has officially happened.

The Orphan is moving out – and I am so torn over it that I need to write a few things to hopefully clear my head…

Firstly, I am very happy for him, for his progress through his trauma and near-fatal divorce; with that said: I worry about him, he is ALWAYS in the cerebral with me…because he has become like family over the past half-year. Wow…

He has pretty much been gone all of the time anyway lately – assuring himself the right spots with all of the right people in the City, doing what he does best: rubbing elbows with Police Commissioners and Porn Actresses – and of course, surfing and swimming with sharks. I have already been feeling a hole where he used to be with me every day, all day – for days on end – before he had his own car and I was like his soccer mom…all of the shit that we got into when he first moved across the globe to come here and heal…all of the hours spent sucking down nicotine and coffee and bleeding our individual traumas all over each other. We were weird, our friendship is weird…but I love him like my own flesh and blood. And, I worry about my own flesh and blood – that’s just how I roll.

He doesn’t say

“I’m coming home”, anymore…he says,

“I’m coming over”….

It’s funny in a weird and twisted way:

The Orphan is a beautiful creature, inside and out (he could easily be one of those Greaser style models from Europe) but he sells himself so short in the realm of love and closeness…he has so very much to offer a woman someday when he feels like he’s ready to try that again, but I fear that he has turned cold permanently. His “new” persona doesn’t leave room for these things at all – robotic and frigid when it comes to matters of the heart (not towards me, but in general). This worries me, a lot. And it makes me sad and I begin to feel uncertain about his being on his own already, which I know is none of my business at the end of the day. But I can’t help but think that he might be just teetering still…and I do not want to throw him to the wolves before he can fend for himself completely…I am a worry wart, I know this….but I love him very much and he has come through so much recently…I don’t know…I just don’t know…

Outings.

Me 'n The Orphan

Me ‘n The Orphan

I’ll give it to the guy, he’s patient as dead elephant when it comes to my essentially dragging him around behind me aimlessly, during the grips of a random expeditious episode on my part. He usually seems quite content in just silently trailing, hands in his Pendleton pockets…it takes him at least an hour to even chime in with something like, “Uhhhh, should I Google Map it?”

What a trooper, the lil’ shit.

Pity.

The Orphan came home this morning…after three days and nights away.

He announced his arrival by sending me the following text message first:

“You know…it’s called a wetsuit for a reason, not a hang up dry suit.”

Basically, his way of provoking me into going to the beach with him…

Pity…

I do not prefer to spend the day with anyone out of a sense of pity they may be feeling for me, but he means well. When he actually got home, I told him it’s too late for surfing today, by the time we got there the sun will be starting to set – and he is not keen on nighttime water activities so much…smart guy. Anyway, he told about his latest endeavors and I told him I had nothing new to report; we drank over-strong coffee and chain-smoked together, a default comfort mechanism that we have always shared in common, and I eventually just asked him straight up:

“You trying to take me to the beach ‘cause you feel sorry for me?”

He doesn’t miss a beat before replying:

“That’s the ONLY way you EVER get to follow me over there…”

The Orphan boasts the biggest, whitest, most Un-American looking choppers I have ever seen in person…his smile is unmatched by any dude that I know, and when he cracks a joke prior to cracking that smile, he does this funny thing with his neck – the combination of the three together is instant comfort to me, regardless of the situation; one of his most endearing physical displays, in my opinion.

“I don’t do shit with anybody out of pity, you dumbass…”

The words seem to speak directly to my heart as he says them at me.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself…”

He’s standing, staring down at me, still smiling – but his eyes are afire like he’s possibly bordering angry as he retinal-burns me with his line of vision; waiting for my response.

I am caught off guard by his calling me out, and it apparently showed because his expression softens itself immediately before he adds, “Jackass…”

I stood there temporarily stuck on stupid, not sure what to say back to him, thinking about how right he actually is with his point.

Okay, Killer…I will.”

His mouth is hanging open slightly across the table from me, as we sit under the now-naked pomegranate tree out back; he was not expecting me to agree with him, no doubt.

You’re right…”

For someone so wet behind his little (sunburned) ears, he can be pretty wise when he doesn’t want to be, sometimes…

Evolutions…

“Take off your shirt, please…”

The Orphan’s handsome face begins to form a look of defiance, but suddenly reveals his sense of trust in me, as he eases his t-shirt up and over his head.

My eyes swell with tears and I am overtaken with pride for some ungodly reason…he has meat on his bones once more!!!

“Atta Boy, Rock Star!”

I punch him playfully in his washboard belly and wink blatantly up at his now-blushing, chiseled face.

“Why are you crying?” he is seriously wondering out loud at my over-expressiveness…

“Because I can so vividly recall what you looked like when you came back to live here…when I picked you up from the airport the second time…” my head is slowly shaking from side to side as I speak to him – looking him in his lighter colored eye (the left one). He’s been gone for a few days and I worry…but he always comes home and makes me feel stupid as hell for ever thinking he can’t handle himself.

 

Spoken Like A Wise Man.

the Orphan

Despite the “unapproachability” that I so openly tease the Orphan about on a regular basis, he continues to be socially accosted by some of the most pond-scummiest of creatures imaginable so far, in his evolutionary adventures as a born-again Red Triangle Surfer God.

 

  • The Orphan is a strange combination of “Foreign” = the Orphan interacts socially in a different manner than that which Americans (especially West Coast Surfer Boys/OGSC’s) are at all prepared for, much less have any clue how to respond to, in most cases.
  • It’s actually pretty fuckin’ funny to watch from a safe distance most of the time…shame on me.
  • The Orphan does Him, and tends not to worry about what anyone is doing until whatever they’re doing starts to impede on his own gig = he’s 9 times out of 10 NOT the one to initiate conversation with a stranger (I imagine he was this way always, even in his most familiar of environments). He keeps to himself unless a nerve gets pinched.
  • The Orphan is, just like Yours Truly, allergic to BULLSHIT = don’t talk in front of him if you’re full of shit because he will sniff you out in an nano-second and expose you until you disappear.

 

A BELOVEDLY TRUE STORY:

He is sitting out past the breakers in the solitude of a favorite beach break of his, enjoying the peace and quiet away from the trendy tourist beaches that have become UN-FUN due to so many idiot vacationers. Suddenly, he is startled by a raspy voice behind him somewhere close by and he whips his head around to see a washed-up, rode hard, dirty Surf Bum paddling up to his position in the lineup.

Sigh…why?…just why?

His eye rolling doesn’t deter the man from sliding in next to him as he waits for a good ride and begins to talk to the Orphan openly about his problems.

“I feel like shit, Man…haven’t had a drink in over 48 hours…trying to quit, ya know?…

The Orphan just stares straight ahead but gives a nod of acknowledgment because he is, unfortunately for him at this very moment in the story, a Human Being.

“Just gotta stop drinking, Man…” no waves to ride in come, so the Orphan listens on, somehow intrigued by the train wreck of a surfer.

The older guy is obviously distraught and in a state of disarray as he tells the Orphan about a “fight” with his “Ol’ Lady” a few nights prior, and having had to leave the house afterward so as not to be arrested when the police arrived.

“It’s all because women ya know?…they are so fragile …you can’t hit ‘em like you could, a man, ya know…? …so much frailer, so easy to really fuck up in fight…so I gotta stop that drinkin’, Man…”

After several minutes of collecting enough verbal information that the Orphan felt certain of his quickly forming opinion regarding a somewhat “touchy” subject, he responded to this miserably clueless, self-admitted woman beater in the way that ONLY the Orphan could.

He turned and made intentionally piercing eye-contact with the man on the board just 2 feet away from him and simply stated:

“Hey…Dude…. I mean, I think it has certainly occurred to you by now that maybe…..you don’t need to stop fighting with your lady because “she is fragile and frail”…”, his fingers are up to do the accompanying gesture of quotation marks, “maybe it’s just because you’re an alcoholic idiot who can’t control himself when he’s drunk – which sounds like it’s ALWAYS….”

The Orphans posture is straight and self-assured as he sits like statue waiting for a response of any kind that takes a while to come, surprisingly.

“Well…ya got a point there, don’t you Kid?”

THE END.