SoC 2:4

In Lisbon, at the End of a Long Trip

 

I

When I was sixteen I had Bell's Palsy, half my face was paralyzed.

My mother made an doctor appointment, drove me and talked to this doctor—all without looking at me.

The doctor examined me, called my mother in again and said, "Look at his face. See how half moves and the other half doesn't."

and she said, " Oh! What do you know!"

I never forgave her.

She did other things that were worse. Much worse. But they weren't as bad because after that day I stopped looking at her.

II

I'm in Lisbon, at the end of a very long trip, at the counter of a small fisherman restaurant.

After ten years the old guy hands me a menu. I say I can't read Portuguese.

This isn't true, I can't read his handwriting (the menu never changes, not once in all these years.)

He says,"OK, what do you want."

I say, "Fish."

He holds up two fillets

I say, "that one."

He says "grilled or fried"

I say "grilled."

None of this has varied, not once, not by one pause, not in all these years.

There's a great comfort in this kind of old guy. I have a bunch of them:

Nico, the barber in Vancouver, the hotel guys in Mexico City

III

My mother's closest friends were the make up saleswoman at Bloomingdale's.

Naturally, I made fun of her for this. They're selling you stuff, of course they're nice.

But I was wrong. I wish I could tell her that—also.