Way, way back in the day. Back when I was subject to the whims of adult authority, the Grown-ups in the room would often say, “He’s got potential.” They said it like Brokers. Nodding, like I was a share of  high-volatility stock. Speaking not to me but to each other. “He’s got potential,” they’d all agree. “Yes, yes… He’s certainly got potential. If only…” Leaving me to think I must have the right stuff. “His teachers all agree he’s got potential…but he doesn’t apply himself…” Again saying this among themselves. My Aunt Hazel would say it to my face. She’d say, “You’ve got so much potential. Don’t waste it. Don’t be like the rest of them. Study hard. Set yourself a goal and stick to it. Do like John D. Rockefeller. Every single day he’d rise at four a.m….” As she’s telling me this I’m thinking, Rockefeller? She wants me to get up at 4 a.m. like Rockefeller. Who the fuck is John D. Rockefeller?

As a youth, Rockefeller reportedly said that his two great ambitions were to make $100,000 and to live 100 years. He made 435 Billion (adjusted for inflation) and lived 97 years.

There came a point in my life…as I merged into Juvenile Delinquency…when the Grown-ups no longer took an interest in me. They no longer viewed me as a promising commodity but as an enigma and probably a threat. For my part, I never took their opinions seriously. The very fact of them having control of my life seemed absurd. Even at ten years old I could see how ridiculous they were. As for my Potential? I’ve done what I want with my life. My goal now is to glide like a gull with as little effort as possible from one day to the next.

I’ve gotten by so far with relative ease. Achieving along the way the status of a reasonably successful Loser. This is my life and I’m proud of it. If I have any regrets at seventy two years old, it’s that I never had the guts to cut my lines at 11 years old and drift down the river like Huck Finn on his raft, with his buddy Jim along for the ride…of becoming the truly great Loser I was meant to be.

On further reflection, however, I must say that, considering the capriciousness of Fate, I’m about as good a Loser as my intelligence, pedigree and the vagaries of luck allowed.

That is to say, I’ve pretty much lived up to my potential.

Norm’s dizzy spells

Norm’s a character of mine. You’ll find him in my novel, Log Of The Yardbird. I named him Normal Guy because at the time I met him he was a homeless dude living in his SUV and yet he looked perfectly respectable, like a normal guy. I call him Norm for short. I found a boat for Norm and he’s lived on it now for going on ten years. The boat caught fire earlier this year but he doused the flames and the boat still floats. So he’s good. Norm’s 75 years old which is elderly but he’s hanging in there.

At my gym I find Norm drifting across the lot. “I’m having dizzy spells,” he says. “I don’t know what it is. I can’t drive my car. I’ve been sitting in it. I can’t drive. I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Dizzy Spells?”

“I think I might be having a stroke…”

You need to go to the hospital?”

Yeah… I’m glad I ran into you.”

Norm doesn’t like having his picture taken. Well…I need to honor his request.

On the way to the hospital I tell him, “You know…I was having dizzy spells a while back. Turns out I was only dehydrated.”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he says.

Carla

Carla, an old girlfriend. We were together for several years. Back back back before the country started going crazy. I don’t know why we’ve kept in touch. Yes, I do know. I’m a soft touch. I’m always good for a small loan.

Earlier in the day…before I ran into Norm and his dizzy spells…I ran into Carla. Parked in the lot beside the public bathrooms.

Carla’s been living in her car. A nice car. Late model VW…so far it’s running fine…except it smokes. A smoking car, no matter the late model, is concerning.

Carla is living in her car with her dog. A mini-Aussie. A pure bred. She named him Bali. Bali I suspect enjoys living in Carla’s car. Bali is the consummate beautiful Loser. Way better than me. Better even than Norm.

Bali is a Dog!

I can’t help myself. I have a soft spot for Carla. Carla does everything her own way. Unlike Norm who makes nothing but friends Carla has a talent for making enemies. Something’s going on with Carla. She’s getting too old to live in her car. Plus she won’t take care of her car. Do the maintenance. The car’s health is questionable. If she loses her car she’ll have no roof. Because nobody will take Carla in. Her siblings have disowned her. She’s not a nice person, Carla. My friend Rel Render insists Carla is a bad person. I’ve seen Carla attack people. She’ll turn on you with a viciousness that’ll leave you reeling. Later she’ll come to you for a loan. They happen to like her at the gym. They’ve yet to see her dark side. She’s especially nice to the gym staff. But the staff are straight arrows. None of the staff would take her in. Nobody with a house will offer Carla a roof. Many have done so and lived to regret it. I have a dread of one day finding Carla, standing at the curb, in the rain. Carla and her dog. Her broken down car being towed away. At that moment my Carla Karma will appear before me with a choice. I’ll have no recourse but to take her in. Offer her shelter from the storm. I often come awake in the middle of the night. Dreading that inevitability…

I offer Carla all the cash I have on me. 12 dollars. A five and 7 ones. As I’m digging out the cash a twenty peeks from it’s hiding place.

“What’s that?”

“Here.” I hand her the twenty.

“You sure?”

“Take it.”

As I’m passing her the twenty. I’m thinking how stupid this is. Earlier this summer she came off a huge score. Three months later she’s flat broke.

“Christ! What happened to that fifty grand loan you got in June?”

She pushes the twenty at me.

“I don’t need your money. Forget I asked.”

“Take the god damned twenty.”

I don’t mean to rub it in. I kinda do. It’s just that it pisses me off how she operates. I already know what she did with the fifty grand. She can’t rent a place cuz her credit is toxic. So she stayed in fancy hotels. Three four five hundred bucks a night. You can’t believe how fast fifty grand will evaporate in Marin County.

She takes the twenty.

Trumpy Joan’s neighbors

I’m hanging at my girlfriend’s pad. Like I do every weekend. Joan doesn’t hang on my boat. She even told me the other day. “I hate boats.” Okay. That’s fine by me. I don’t mind hanging at Joan’s pad. It’s a nice pad. She even has a photo of me on the fireplace mantel. Like I’m special. I guess I am. I don’t feel special. I feel old. My pal Rel Render would say, “there you go again with your ‘whoa is me, shit.’ Okay so I like to gripe. That’s why I’m the Gloomy Boomer. That’s why I started this blog. So I can whine. And Bitch. And moan. This is how I get shit off my chest. And why I’ve become wildly popular. My lack of popularity is the least thing on my mind at the moment. I’m thinking of Joan’s neighbors.

These are respectable people. She’s known these people, her neighbors, most of them anyway, twenty or more years. They’re not the kind of people who live on boats. Who shoplift for a hobby like Norm. Who squat in fancy pads and force the landlord to evict them like Carla. Who write about his loser life and his loser friends and is proud of the fact…like me.

These are not cannibals.

These are normal people. People who’ve worked hard all their lives and now in retirement are getting by just fine. Better than most when you figure the town homes they occupy are worth at least a million and a half and are practically paid off. These people have investment portfolio’s. Joan’s got one so I’m assuming the others do too. These people take vacations on a whim. Not Joan cuz she’s stuck with me but the rest of them do. They tend their gardens. Like normal people. I’ve befriended these people, Joan’s neighbors, because I’m a friendly guy. They like me. Why do they like me? Because I appear normal. I still carry in my old age that glow of potential the Grownups thought they saw in me back when I was a small kid. Well, so be it. You got a roll with what you got, as the Spiritual Advisor used to say. I forget his name.

But somethings going on with Joan’s neighbors. Jim, the retired attorney on Joan’s left, had a stroke. A mild one. But a definite stroke. Gloria, on Joan’s right, had to be rushed to the hospital with an undisclosed but serious illness. And then Wilma, a door down from Gloria, has been running around saying crazy things. She says people are watching her. Last month she set her dog’s food dish on fire. Wilma’s husband died of cancer I think three years ago. I can’t remember exactly how long ago. But yes it was at least three years ago. Wilma gave me a lot of his cloths. She was clear headed at the time of his death. I suspect his death knocked her onto a slow downside. She’s held on till now.

Wilma’s mind has finally slipped loose. She has episodes she can’t control…

Today these pretty tough Lesbian ladies showed up in a YOU HAUL and loaded up some stuff that’s gonna furnish a studio apartment in a real nice kinda fancy complex for old people both semi ambulatory and/or semi Mental. I don’t know all the details but the brochure looks fancy. I could live there. Shit. I’ll give away my boat and move in today if they let me. Except I aint got 20 grand a month they’re asking. Neither does Carla…

I’m in the garage putting on my shoes when Wilma walks by with one of the Lesbians. I had the garage door open cuz I’m heading back to my boat. It’s Sunday and I gotta get back. Why? Because I can’t stay at Joan’s for more than a day or two without going crazy from Fox News blaring from every god damned room.

I guess Wilma’s hanging one more night in her pad before moving to her new fancy health care pad. I was kinda hoping I wouldn’t run into her after hearing Joan tell me how she broke down and wept over being forced into a mental assist home and how she had to give her dog away. I mean, I don’t want to hear this shit. I’m the gloomy boomer but I don’t want to hear about real sadness. It drives me crazy. Especially about the dog.

So I’m putting on my shoes and Wilma walks by with her Lesbian friend helping her out and I can’t help myself I gotta say something, so I call out to her like I always do, “Hey Wilma!”

She freezes while the Lesbian friend of hers keeps walking and she stares at me like she knows me. Well, I get up and walk over to her and I say, “Hey Wilma, I hear you found a great little apartment for yourself over near Northgate.”

“Who told you that?” she says.

“Oh, I heard it. And I’ll tell ya. I think it’s a great idea. You got way too much space here. I saw the brouchure. Wow what a fancy place. You’re gonna love it. I gotta come see you over there!”

She smiles at me and nods.

I give her a hug. She says, “I’ll see you soon big guy!”

I watch her catch up with her friend.

Here’s the thing. At the end we’re all of us Losers. I’ve been one all my life and I’m used to it. It’s tough for the others. The Respectable people. People like Wilma. Maybe we’re all beautiful in the end. Beautiful from losing. It’s pretty to think so, as Ernest Hemingway said. Well, I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe I do too much thinking.

Monday at the Gym

I’m sitting in my car putting off going in to try and work out a little when I spy Carla grabbing stuff from her car. Pulling out all kinds a junk she lugs with her into the gym. I know she’s got a little dough on her since she got her social security check. I don’t need the money I loaned her. My phone rings. It’s Norm.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. They did all kinds of tests. MRI….EKG…Cat Scan…”

“You spend the night at the Hospital?”

“Oh, yeah…I had to, for the MRI….”

“Nice. How was the food.”

“Not bad!”

“Steak and Eggs for breakfast?”

“Wow. How did you know?”

“Wild guess.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what they found out?”

“I already know. But since you’re curious. It wasn’t a stroke. It was dehydration.”

“Wow! Close. You’re right about it not being a stroke. They’re not sure if I was dehydrated. But they suspect I might’ve been.”

So there you have it. Another day in the life. I’m thinking I might forgo my work-out. Just grab a shower and take a nap. Maybe feed my seagulls.

Actually, no maybe about it.….