Early-morning Snark
 |
| Some oxygen seekers at the ISU track |
I ran on the street-side path inside the cemetery fence. It was the
time of day for the sprinklers to run, and run they did, shooting high plumes
of silver water into the dawn-fresh air. I turned right—if memory served me
there was a gate in the cemetery fence at the very back of the expanse. I ran
up between the rows of dead people, some of them recently deceased and some long gone.
I considered the concept of disrespecting the dead. I guess
you believe in it more strongly if you are a fan of the afterlife—if you’re
not, it probably seems unreasonable to you that the dead could like or dislike
any kind of behavior at all. Be the truth as it may, and certainly I can’t tell
you what it is, I couldn’t help pondering whether running up and down between the rows
of tombstones and markers, dressed in spandex and a red shirt of the finest
wicking material, could be considered disrespectful.
I turned left on another dirt path between the tombstones,
still thinking I was heading for an exit. Another row over I saw a couple of
men, obviously gardeners, taking a smoke break. The heavier of the two sat on
the seat of a riding mower; the other one, a more slender fellow, leaned
against a tree exhaling a cloud of smoke as his companion talked, his own
cigarette clenched firmly between thumb and finger.
It struck me that if I were dead but at the same time
cognizant of the antics of the undead, I’d be more affronted by cigarette
smoking on my turf (yes, it would be my turf—I’d
have claimed it by becoming part of it and wouldn’t be moving anytime soon)
than I would be by an old lady jogging above me just trying to take in some
fresh air.
Dodging the feathery sprinkler showers and the puddles they
created, I came to where I thought the gate was and found that, well, it
wasn’t. I had to jog back a quarter mile to the main gate, from where I ran
across 5th street and into the alley behind all the 5th
Street buildings. My home away from home, the Rodeway Inn (I call it the Hotel
Swank) was in my sights.
Before I got there I had to run past the backside of
McDonalds. There as I passed were seven cars with their windows rolled up and
their engines running, waiting in the drive-through lane for their breakfast of hockey-puck
English muffin, processed dead pig, and ersatz cheese, aka an Egg McMuffin. I
thought of the sun-dappled water raining down on the endless rows of dead
people ensconced under green grass in their eternal asleep. In the cemetery the
tall trees are filled with quarreling birds and chattering squirrels. Crazy
people like me come and go—egging on their hearts to beat and their muscles to
fire, their lungs to gasp and their cheeks to redden while they still can.
I guess it’s kind of like believing in an afterlife or not.
It comes down to a personal choice—and
God knows we live in the land of freedom of choice. On the one hand you can
barricade yourself in a steel air-conditioned shell, listen to hair-raising
“news” or ear-crashing “music,” and eventually get to the front of the line and
pay for unhealthy food to eat on the way to work. On the other hand you can
strive to let your body actually feel the sensations it was designed to feel.
The smell of new-mowed grass. The sight of fresh water creating rainbows in the
air. The sound of critters going about their day. The feel of an early morning
summer sun. Granted, you have to go to work (I showed up there for many years). Maybe you could grab some
fruit and a bagel from home to take along? And perhaps then walk or take a bus?
Or go in your car but put the windows down and turn off the insidious chatter
of the modern world? The air and the birds and the sun and the sights are
relentlessly egalitarian: They are there for me and they are there for you.
Anyway. Made it back to the Hotel Swank. Walked past two of
the housekeeping staff sitting on an outside bench and enjoying a smoke break
(maybe they were related to the cemetery gardeners?). I opened the door and
walked into the breakfast room to grab some juice and coffee. Inside were
several tables, one of them occupied by a slim Asian woman and her two
toddlers, the other by a heavy-set white woman and her daughter, who looked to
be about seven. High in the corner was the ubiquitous TV, tuned to the
news. An earnest talking head with gorgeous hair was describing the force of a
lightning strike (who says Americans have no interest in science) and what it
could do if it hit you (Burn you to ashes! Reduce your body to bloody
smithereens!). Although the statistical liability of your ever being hit by
lightning did not rate coverage (the chances in the U.S. are roughly 1 in 700,000),
ways to avoid this dire happening were supplied in abundance. Obviously, this
is a breaking news story of national significance. Our children will be safer
for having watched this.
I got my coffee and headed for the door. On the wall,
hanging from a pushpin, was a sign that read, “Life is too short to be taken
seriously.” Turned out to be the most sensible thing I’d see all day.
This is a cranky, judgmental post if ever I’ve written one.
Blame it on the endorphins.
 |
| Sunflowers like fresh air too. |
Comments