"Tears Of A Clown"

   A few nights ago I had a coworker say to me, “Jeesh, you’re just like my mom!”  Admittedly, I did force this individual into my vehicle so I could drive him home.  I simply couldn’t watch him bundle up in order to trudge through the November darkness to catch three different buses just to get home.  In actuality, I’ve watched him do this very thing many evenings.  I should also clarify that this particular person seems very comfortable with his chosen means of transportation.  I marvel at his ability to navigate through everyday life without owning a car.  Honestly, it must be quite liberating.  However, some evenings I would assume it’s nice to get home early.  In addition, the other night he did me a solid at work so I felt I owed him a favor.  Upon arrival at his apartment I immediately went through my mental checklist out loud with him.  “Okay, have you got your phone?  Do you have your keys?  I’ll wait until you reach the door before I pull away,” I stated.  At that point this obviously adult and extremely capable person, quite legitimately, accused me of mothering him.  “Huh, my bad,” I thought.

   Of course, this is by far not the first time I’ve heard these words.  Actually, it was this very issue that nearly destroyed the relationship between me and my brother.  At the time we lived together in the, “BIG BAD CITY.”  We were both in our twenties and admittedly not the most responsible people.  It was not unusual for either one of us to roll…or physically crawl…into our apartment at all hours of the night.  In fact, I recall one evening in particular that I did just that…the crawling thing, that is…while wearing a Mexican luchador mask.  I remember finally getting to the apartment sometime around 2:00 AM and drunkenly giggling at the idea of my brother’s face when he saw me.  I should have known he would nonchalantly swing open the door and state without hesitation, “Oh, it’s just you.”  I hate when my antics are so predictable.  As a side note, if any of my readers ever have the opportunity to go to a Los Straitjackets concert I recommend going…like now! 

   However, I digress…the point of this sordid tale of sophomoric stupidity is, unlike my brother, I couldn’t handle when he was out late and I didn’t know if he was okay.  Considering both of our penchants for unpredictable shenanigans, combined with the undeniably crime ridden neighborhood we resided in, I was constantly concerned about his well-being.  About once a week I was totally convinced he had finally bummed a cigarette to the wrong individual and as a result was tied up in the back of some panel van, with orange shag carpet, on its way to sell him into a bizarre prostitution ring.  Of course, my constant calls and scolding seriously irritated him.  Eventually it became clear we probably shouldn’t live together.  However, his total inability to wash a dish didn’t help either.  

   I’d like to report that I’ve gotten over this obsessive compulsion to smother other individuals.  Thankfully today, both my brother and I are far beyond our, “wild years.”  I feel fairly confident in his ability to care for himself.  However, there was that tiny little setback on my last visit with him.  He had left his apartment on foot to pick up cookies for us at an all-night bakery.  Like I stated, our wild years are definitely done.  It was very late and when he didn’t return for quite a while…due to…well… due to what I instantly assumed was a human trafficking situation, I started to freak.  In actuality I didn’t need to be prepping myself to scour the neighborhood for clues.  He eventually returned with a bunch of delicious cookies and a lot less cigarettes.  His antics are also very predictable.

   Lastly, I guess the reason all of this has been on my mind is due to the fact that one of my outdoor cats has been missing for nearly a week now and I can’t get right with it.  The day I wore the outfit in the above photographs I was bitching about the fact that my cats would not leave me alone while I was posing.  Reflecting on this now, I could slap myself due to the fact that I would be more than happy to tolerate this small inconvenience in order to know they were all safe.  Unfortunately I currently do not know, and I’m not certain I ever will.  I've yelled my cat’s name repeatedly before and after work every day until I barely have a voice left.  I've paced every inch of our property, some of which has been quite challenging, due to dense shelterbelts, in search of clues or…god forbid…a body.   I've investigated each abandoned building on our land and every inch of the nearby highway in order to find some confirmation of what might have happened to my fuzzy companion.  Lastly, I've racked my brain trying to remember anything out of the ordinary the last time I saw him.  Finally today, when I resorted to stuffing a random ball of something like unidentifiable roadkill into my coat pocket with the intention of further analysis my boyfriend finally intervened, “You have to stop CSIing this Rayna.  You're making yourself crazy.  If he is alive, he will come back when he’s ready.” 

   In closing, it’s been a crappy week in my world and as a result this post took a rather serious turn.  I guess one can only write cutesy anecdotes for so long until they finally have to face what’s bothering them.  The thing that's really upsetting to me is the fact that one can do everything they’re supposed to do….one can be so careful…one can anticipate every problem…one can constantly ask, “Do you have your phone?  Do you have your keys?” and still your loved ones can get lost coming home.

-r.