If you are new to this blog, and don’t know me, then I suggest you scroll past this article. Or check out the Best of SafeT. This post will not interest you. I normally try to make my posts accessible to all, but this one will be the exception.

     I’d had a good weekend, so far. Things went well at the eBay store on Saturday; we posted a Porsche 944 and later a woman we have given the affectionate nick-name of “Wrists” brought us some Coach bags, golf caddies and two more expensive and oversized men’s watches she no longer wanted to wear.
     Heather tells me that Sam was well behaved while I was at work, and we both noted with pride that she was charming later at the party.
     The shindig in question was a block party held at a neighbor’s house; events were punctuated by a very tall, very drunk, black man possessing a marvelous singing voice who was pelting guests at random with plastic balls he fished from the children’s ball pit. Great toquitos, however. Samantha was thrilled to find various children to play with, and to our parental chagrin Sam impulsively went for a swim in a kiddie pool while still fully clothed. Ah, well, she’s only four, and ultimately it was cute how her Shreck underpants showed through her soaked shorts.
     We ended the party by playing a game called “Horse Balls,” which finds players flinging bolos at distant horizontal pipes. A boring game with a fascinating name.

Later that night I played my new video game, “Dance, Dance, Revolution,” for about an hour, which proved to be quite exhausting! I think I’ve found a more entertaining way to go about my morning constitutional from now on. I, too, can be a fly girl!

I have never mentioned this before, but I own a 1973 Buick Centurion. A veritable land-yacht, I feel as if I should wear a boating hat whilst motoring across the Michigan landscape in this tank. There were only a few thousand of these beasts built, and my Grandfather, Louis Joseph Starcevic, owned this one.      My grandfather was an intelligent, vital, hilarious man who was finally brought down by a fatal anemia at the age of 90 in his home town of Bloomington, Illinois.      To give you an idea of how vital he was, he jokingly told people at his 80th birthday that he was still young enough to take “yes” for an answer. Meanwhile his wife, 15 years his junior, blushed charmingly.      To give you an idea of how sharp he was, in the weeks before his death he was bed ridden and his wife, Barbara, visited the library twice a week, delivering unto him a payload of between five and ten books to ward off the inevitable boredom that would consume him after he completed his crossword puzzles.      To give you an idea of what a great man he was, the funeral home was filled to capacity on the day of his funeral, and the funeral director was forced to set up chairs outside to accommodate the crowds. Further, his pastor cried openly while trying to work his way through the eulogy. I had a similar problem when giving my speech, but I succeeded in getting a few chuckles by telling a joke on the way to the tears. On display during the service were several framed photographs. One of them was a portrait of him and Barbara, both wearing gay hats and driving in the Centurion.      The year before his death he told me that he wanted me to have the car and when, some months after the funeral, I returned to Bloomington to retrieve the Buick, the vehicle was recognized by nearly all who beheld it. As I drove the monstrous convertible around town preparing it for the 450 mile (about 730 kilometers) drive home, I was constantly asked, “Isn’t that Louie’s car?” “What are you doing with Lou’s car?” and even, “did you buy Lou Starcevic’s car?”      ”I’m his grandson,” I would tell them proudly, “and he left me this Centurion.”      I had the Buick in my garage all through the winter, and only recently had it repainted and the engine worked over.      Today I put the top down, and with Sammy belted in the passenger seat, we cruised to my mom’s house. She had a great time; she looked so tiny in the huge seat, and sat cross-legged in sandals. Happily gesticulating, she talked about everything and nothing, told me she loves her daddy and loves riding in his Big, Bad Buick! So now my Centurion has a name. Big-Bad Buick. And considering the sizeable mass of Detroit steel that makes up the majority of this barge, I’m sure it could blow a house down.

At Mom’s house we had a little barbecue with my brother Jerry in attendance, manning the grill. This picture was taken of Sam standing next to her private fishing spot that Grampa made just for her. (The little signboard actually says, “Sammy’s Fishing Spot.”) Who doesn’t like going to Gramma and Grampa’s house? With no cousins, the world orbits my daughter with no interference from any quarter.

     Now we get to the part that screwed up the weekend for me.
     After my mother’s house: Heather, Sam and I drove to a restaurant to attend the thirtieth birthday party of my brother-in-law Scott’s wife, Sherry.
     I was happy to see that several of my old high-school buddies were in attendance with their significant others. John Engle, a man who I once considered my best friend, and Matt Closurdo, a fellow who was also a good friend once upon a time.
     If you have ever read my essay, A Matter Of Weeks, you will know that I have viewed them warily for over a decade.
But it had been a long time since we’d all seen each other. The last time I’d seen John was when he nearly died from an abscessed tooth and I visited him, all tubed, tracheotomized and catheterized, in the hospital. So after seeing Heather and Sam to the table with Debbie and Iris (gramma and great-gramma on Heather’s side), I excused myself and proceeded to the booth with my old friends.
We chatted, catching up, or so I thought. After a bit, I got back up to go sit with Heather and Sam for the meal. As I seated myself, Heather said,
     ”I don’t want you going back there.”
     ”Huh?” I puzzled, “Why?”
     ”I don’t like the way they were treating you.” She then proceeded to tell me that all the while I was sitting there, my old companions were exchanging ‘looks,’ rolling their eyes and jeering at me. Further, as I walked back to Heather’s table, they laughed and joked at my back.
     I was tempted to think that Heather was misinterpreting what she had seen, but no matter, it was dinner time. After eating, Sam played with some little girls from Sherry’s side of the family, and was soon sporting some helium balloons on her wrist. I settled back in my seat and enjoyed watching her play and visit with her relatives. Soon my reverie was interrupted as Scott approached me and told me that John needed to talk to me about something at the restaurant’s bar. Not sure what was up, but remaining credulous, I approached John at the bar, where he was smoking a cigarette.
     ”Scott says you want to talk to me?” John looked at me in mild surprise, pulled the cigarette from his lips, and said,
     ”What? For why?” I looked back to the table with Matt and Sherry and saw that they were laughing and pointing. Ah, a joke of some kind. Was this a joke on me or John? I really didn’t care. I went back to my table, where Scott had remained, chatting with Heather and her mother. When I asked Scott what that was all about, he laughed it off, shaking his head. I must admit, I lost my temper at this childish shenanigans.
     ”I don’t need this shit,” I leaned in close, “Scott. I’m out of here.” We got Sam to say goodbye to everyone and departed.
     It isn’t the joke, as I honestly couldn’t see where the joke was. Unless they think I’m pining away for John’s lost friendship of a decade ago? Hardly. We have nothing in common, and I haven’t spoken with him in over a year. What really made me angry was the lack of respect.
     I am no longer accustomed to being treated with outright disrespect, and I’m completely unwilling to put up with it. I briefly felt guilty for having left the gathering. Heather says she completely supports my decision, and upon reflection I agree. Why in the world would I want to celebrate the birthday of a woman who, along with her husband, has no regard for me in any meaningful way? So, here I sit, cathartically unloading this episode onto these pages.
     I regret having produced such a personal article, and regret even more that I have not given you the “Advice to An Aspiring Bus Boy” story I promised.
There’s always tomorrow!