On one particularly miserable night, I told Santino, a tall, lanky, teenaged recovering addict, twenty years my junior, to fuck off.
Santino and I were in a room, a tiny box of a room comparatively, filled with pizza ovens, dough stations, sauce stations, slicing stations, televised sports stations, stacks of pizza boxes, refrigerators, garbage cans, and rows of shelves stocked with ketchup, olive oil, soap, and all sorts of essentials.
I was standing amidst a fat, grey-skinned man who regularly poured cornstarch into his shorts on hot days, two dirty water splashing dishwashers, a team of coming and going cursing and bitching waitresses, and a few teenaged boys who neither added nor subtracted anything from my life.
Despite the amount of time I’ve spent in this room, I’ve no idea of walls’ color, the nature of the floor and ceiling, or even if it had a window. I don’t know if that matters.
Besides, I’m not there. I’m here, seated before two windows.
My space is lovely. I sit at an old wooden desk situated before two oversized windows that look onto the neighborhood. I see the weekender’s backward American flag powered by wind from the South, piles of oak and maple leaves, hydrangeas dying to be trimmed before the frost, an old blue Ford pickup made completely of metal driven by a young smoker, two squirrels, bobbing evergreen branches that I will cut for a Christmas wreath, women with dyed hair and too much make up knocking on doors to discuss Jesus, the shadows shrinking so quickly.
To my right is a mirror image of this room. Instead of a desk before the windows, my dog drapes himself over the back of a couch to keep watch on the neighborhood. My dog sees the same two women, but he doesn’t know about their made up faces, dyed hair, or that they want to discuss Jesus. He doesn’t even know who Jesus is. He sees two squirrels corkscrewing up a tree. He enjoys relieving himself in the pile of leaves. He watches a stray car pass, a robin hop along the fence, a fisherman carry his pole and bucket. I know that the pole the man carries is used to catch fish, but he sees a man who is a potential threat to his home. I see squirrels playfully run up a tree, he senses their scent and perhaps he imagines a chase.
On a particularly depressing night in the box, I cringed at the thought of leaving the box to deliver food to people who I didn’t care about, in exchange for money. With tomato sauce lodged under my fingernails, a variety of food splattered on my sneakers, reeking of garlic, dirty dishwater dripping from my legs, I cringed at the thought of the imminent and perpetual meaningless small talk with people I didn’t care a bit about. For money. Not to mention, I was standing incredibly close to the man who regularly poured cornstarch into his shorts.
Somehow, at that moment, Santino, the recovering addict, twenty years my junior, saw the misery in my face and crossed the room. We had no business together, but he made me his business. He told me that at that very moment, there is nowhere else that I’m supposed to be, or could be, than right here, right now.
I had no time for this chit-chat. My mouth thanked him, but in my head I told him to fuck off, in the meanest way possible, of course. I took my filthy, smelly self into the dining room, delivered food, spoke about nothing to people I didn’t care about, and retrieved money. Fuck you, Santino.
That was a long time ago, and any more times that night, that week, that year, I returned to the box to deliver food in exchange for money, and many more times Santino’s words ran through my head. He was right. I was supposed to be there, right then, just as I am supposed to be here, right now. I am always supposed to be exactly where I am. Even if I’m in motion, I am still right here, right now. You are too. You’re here reading this, telling me to fuck off in your head, or high-fiving me, or telling me to learn to write. Everyone who is right here, right now, will see and experience something very different. It is up to you to create the essence.
Santino taught me to see and experience my dirty job and pieces of my life from a new perspective, just as my dog sees the same neighborhood from another set of windows. I worked hard and I did my job well. It was not glamorous, but it afforded the simple and meaningful life I still appreciate and desire.
The Raw Beauty of a Moment
A moment is a specific and significant, yet immeasurable period of time. A moment is distinct in comparison to that which surrounds it. Distinct, unique. Fleeting.
People share moments, wait just a moment, wait for their big moment, things have had their moment. There are moments of force, magnetic moments, moments to remember, Moment skis that are made in the USA from 95% North American materials. Someone will be with you in a moment. There are momentary lapses of judgment. Nikki Minaj wishes that she “could have this moment for life, for life, for life.” You can measure the internal strength of an object to find its bending moment.
There is the moment of truth.
Douglas Kennedy received a four-star Amazon book review for, “The Moment: A Novel.” One nail-biting Ebay bidder sits on the edge of a seat, 12 seconds away from a Precious Moments figurine. This Magic Moment is having a wedding sale you will not want to miss. Fireworks awed Squints and Smalls to the tune of The Drifters’ “This Magic Moment.” There are awkward moments and moments of clarity. For $259 you can stay at The Moment hotel in Hollywood, California.
Take a moment. I will be with you in a moment.
A moment. How do you know when a moment begins and when it ends? When does the present suddenly become the past? At which point does that specific and significant moment appear to be clutched in your hand? And at which point does it slip through your fingers? Is there a static instant, a “NOW?” Can you be aware enough to know it? Is there enough time to know it?
A moment, this moment right now, is incredibly fast, fleeting, gone, tossed into the past. Every sentence, every word, every letter, every breath, suddenly in the past. This one. Now. Right now, and now, and now, and now…
One incredible moment, however impermanent, however skewed by synaptic memory, existed and fleeted into my past. I existed outside of passing time, absorbing that one moment, that one “now.”
With the help of a team of creative, talented, and generous people, I am able to revisit a representation of that moment whenever I choose. It was January 5, 2012, a day at the beach depicted in the photo, the day I filled the box. I felt like Squints and Smalls, when nothing else existed but the raw beauty of a single moment, one I will share with you in the future.
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Posted in philosophy, writing
Tagged Bending moment, Douglas Kennedy, Ebay, Emotion, flux, Hollywood, impermanence, leave a comment, Magnetic moment, Moment, Moment 4 Life, Nicki Minaj, time