how very lucky to be a girl

Earlier in the night, we had visited an art opening.  We hadn’t stayed very long.  It was an exhibit of works depicting equestrian scenes and, for the most part, I hated it.  Horse art is not my thing. As we were leaving, a man passed me on the sidewalk.   He was tall and thin, very toned but not overly muscular, and he was wearing a purple python long-sleeeved, wide-leg unitard and a widebrim Jimi Hendrix hat, complete with scarf.  He looked like Jimi Hendrix, and he moved like a cat.  If that cat were George Jefferson in a rock band.

My delight in seeing a person casually strolling through the streets of a small town in this get-up was only second to the thrill of finding him at the party.  For there he was.  My Jimi Hendrix.  He may or may not have been in the band.  I couldn’t tell because he was the only member of the band who appeared not to be allowed on stage.  He had a full percussion set up next to them, upstage adjacent, complete with bongos, congas, maracas, tambourines and the like, while he stood, mic-less, front and very far left of downstage, on the grassy hill.  He was dancing.  Wildly.  Wonderfully.  He was the best go-go dancer I have ever seen.  And then he brought the tambourine into action.

It was all I could hear for the remainder of the song.  And it was awful.  My Jimi Hendrix was a percussionist without rhythm, and a very loud one at that.  Song Number 2 brought us the maracas and a dance to match.  If Charo and a Matador had a lovechild, it would have been my Jimi Hendrix in his maracas moment.  Once again, the swing time was not at all enhanced through his contribution.  His percussion was a cacophonic explosion over what otherwise may have been good music, but I couldn’t say, because there were only two things that I could hear.  One was my Jimi Hendrix.  The other was my laughter.

Hank approached me as tears of mirth streamed down my cheeks.  I was trying to photograph my Jimi Hendrix, but I was laughing too hard to steady the camera.  And now standing beside me was the most virile looking man I’d seen in at least a decade. He had to be at least 6’5″.  Beautiful body.  Eyes like the ocean and a smile that was at once mischievous and warm.  He wore a short salt and pepper goatee.  His matching hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail.  If only he would get a haircut, he’d be perfect.  Perfect looking.  Because then he opened his mouth.

Do you see the brightest star in the sky?

OK.  I live in New York City.  I don’t ever see stars.  Now, here I am, in the mountains under a brilliant, clear, black night sky and it is lit up like a Christmas tree with stars.  Or every Christmas tree that ever was.  I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen so many stars and I definitely can’t decipher which one is brightest.

Um, not sure.

There…

He points.  OK, Hank.  There are over one hundred billion stars in the universe, they’re pretty fucking far from us and I’m supposed to see which one you’re talking about when you point your giant finger in some vague direction over my head?  I didn’t want to make this game go on all night.  So I lied.

I think so, yeah.

It’s not a star.

Right.  It’s a planet.

No it’s not.  It’s the space station.

Oh.

It’s not that I was speechless, but I didn’t really know what to say.  I don’t know anything about the space station apart from the fact that there is one and it seems like they’re always fixing it.  Where was he going with this?  I’ll tell you.  Hank wanted to tell me everything he knew about space weather.  And unfortunately for me, it was a lot.  I had nothing to contribute to this conversation.  I don’t know anything about space weather, but I can tell you one thing.  I’d have to guess that they’re even more wrong about the weather in space more often than they are here.  On earth.  Hank is going on and on about the weather in space.  He lost me.  I’m thinking about revising a lifelong plan.  I have always said that in my next life, if I am so lucky as to have one, that I wish to come back as a weather man.  This way, I can always be wrong in my job and yet continue to have it.  Now I am thinking I should be a space weather man.  Yes, definitely.  I am going to come back as a space weather man.  Thanks to Hank.

Where are you from, Hank?

I had to change the subject.  Thankfully, he bit.  More than I could chew.  I was invited into the world of Hank, which if at all true would make him no less than 70 years old.  He looked 40.  At most.

According to Hank, he’d grown up in the suburbs of New York City and left home at 19.  He moved to an Indian reservation where he lived for twenty years.

What did you do there?

Lived.

Well, yes, but didn’t you have a responsibility or some obligation or role in that community?

Oh.  Yes.  I was assigned to an elder.  And I built a school.

Wow, ok.  So Hank is a space weather expert skilled in elder care and construction.  He went on to tell me that he left the reservation for Chicago and a few other cities over the next 12 years.  And then he moved here in 1990.  Another 20 years.  Maybe Hank thinks I can’t add.  Or maybe the pool from Cocoon is in his backyard.  No way this guy is that old.

He excuses himself.  He’s got to get to a screening.  I ask if he’s a filmmaker.  He’s not.  He’s a projectionist.

Hank, I’m beginning to think there’s nothing you haven’t done.

Staci, I could tell you things that would turn your world upside down if I let it rip.

I bet he could.  I was glad he was leaving.  I didn’t want him to let it rip.

to be continued…

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