CHANGE OF MOOD

 

I am a nasty, cantankerous son of a bitch, or at least sometimes I act that way.   That’s how I felt last night after a particularly lousy performance at no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em.   As if losing money wasn’t bad enough, I had to stop off at the supermarket.  Wouldn’t you know it? My checkout line could have made the Guinness Book of Records for slowness. The store was poorly air conditioned and over lit   Beads of perspiration ran down my back. A clumsy oaf at the cashier’s desk couldn’t get his credit card to work. Finally I advanced to second in line. The lady in front of me insisted that an ad in the paper quoted a lower price than the one the cashier had rung up.   I’m telling you, when Murphy devised his law, he must have had a place like this in mind.

An onrush of hot air made me feel no better. It must have been close to 100 degrees outside.  I forgot where I left my car. Carrying two bags of groceries, I was unable to scratch a pesky itch.   Damn!   Instead of buying dinner and a cartful of junk, why didn’t I stop off for pizza?

No wonder it took me so long to find the car. Hidden between a SUV and what looked like a farm wagon, I walked by it twice before realizing it was mine. Blocking my vehicle was a shopping cart. The owner of the farm wagon was loading his truck from the rear.

I was about to spew out a series of insults when, turning towards me, the gentleman clasped his hands together like a Brahman sage and bowed a greeting.  In the poor light of the parking lot, I was unable to determine his age.  Medium of height and slimly built, he was wearing a woolen cap and a sheep-lined vest.  Good God, how could anyone dress like that in this heat?

He asked forgiveness for occupying a space that was rightfully mine.  At once I remarked the resemblance between his face and that of the celebrated Native American, Don Juan. Years ago, Carlos Casteneda's Yacqui shaman had struck me as being a  man of special enlightenment.        

 I attempted a feeble smile. From the cab of the truck a young girl emerged carrying a baby wrapped in tattered blankets.

“Would you mind holding him a minute?” she asked in a voice suggestive of a mountain bird.

Placing my bags inside my car, I took the baby from her.  The girl looked no more than thirteen or fourteen. 

“Hey!” I said.  “He’s pretty heavy.  How old is he?”

“A year and a day,” said the girl.  “We nearly lost him a couple of months ago.  He had open heart surgery.”

"He certainly looks healthy now," I said.

"The Lord has been kind to us.  We are unimaginably lucky."

"May He bless you too," said the gentleman, who could have been the baby's father, grandfather or great grandfather.

I handed the infant to him.  As a rule, mention of higher spirits other than those nasty poker gods brings out the cynic in me.  James Joyce’s comment about his countrymen speaking frequently of the collector of prepuces adequately mirrors my feelings regarding references to any possible overseer of earthly matters.  But not this evening. These people were not proselytizing or mouthing clichés. They were neither priests nor zealots. Spontaneously expressing a feeling from the heart, there was no doubting their sincerity.

Driving home, I felt better than I had all day.   Even the afternoon’s poker losses no longer bothered me.