The N. A. People

...would have a field day, categorizing yesterday's activities.

It was a "normal" Tuesday, and I planned upon adhering pretty much to what would be my "routine."
I am not as inured to a routine, as my friend, Howard Westra, who follows the clock strictly through its full rotations, but I have at least one normalizing factor in my life, in the form of Harold the Cat.
No matter how oblivious I am to the clock -waking up sometimes and wondering if it is 6 AM, or PM, for example-* Harold the cat is on a regimen closer to that of my 70 year old friend, and has trained me to follow the Arcadian cycles, along with himself, by meowing for food at certain times and standing on his hind legs reaching for the doorknob, wanting to go outside, at others.

A can and a half of cat food needs to materialize each and every day, which means that I usually have to go out each day and get it.

I know I could stock up on it, but I don't.

For one thing, there is usually not much of a quantity discount applied to bulk purchases of the wet food; buying 10 cans might reduce the price of each can by 5 cents.

And, I don't want to buy 10 cans of the same flavor and bore Harold's palate with the same thing every night.

So, Tuesday morning, I laid down as the sun was coming up; after having put Harold out so he could take care of his morning business.

I had a dental appointment, and so I set my phone's alarm to an hour and a half before the appointment.

I was woken by a call from Valerie, one of the office workers, and reminded by her that the Sacred Heart Chorus practice was to be that evening at 5 PM. This drew my attention to the fact that it was 2 PM, and I had slept through the alarm and missed the appointment at the dental place.

This is somehow in conjunction with the dental work that is scheduled to be done in January.
Now, I must go by the place after I leave this Main Branch of the library, where I sit and type, and hopefully reschedule whatever it is.

Then Travis, the guy who had crashed at my place for 10 days and given me a couple hundred bucks "for food" called.

He wanted me to get him some weed through my guy. I will change my guy's name to Willy, to protect his identity. Now, you know his name is not Willy, though, I guess.

I told Travis that I would call Willy, and that if he answered and told me that he was going to be home a certain time, I would gladly meet him somewhere near Willy's and do the deal for him. Quickly, efficiently, painlessly.

Travis told me that he was going to be headed towards my place.

I wasn't thinking. I should have told him to hold off until such a time that I confirmed things with Willy on the phone.

He was soon on his way, with 40 bucks for weed, that he thought he would give me at my place, and then I would ride all the way in to the Quarter to see Willy, and then, what, ride all the way back to give him the weed, and then turn around and go back to busk?

I couldn't get Willy on the phone.

Soon, Travis was outside the apartment, and texting me to apprise me of the fact.

I wasn't thinking, again. I had assumed that it would be good to see the guy who had stayed at my place for 10 days, whom I had become friends with. I had forgotten that much of those 10 days were spent with us sitting together while he spoke just about non-stop; not really listening to any input that I may have offered, because he was trying to hold onto his train of thought so he could continue wherever he left off as soon as I was done talking.

I greeted him in a friendly way.

I had been in the computer room, writing a letter to the Lidgleys of London, thanking them for sending me a couple of guitar magazines which had arrived a couple days prior.

I told Travis that I needed to jump back on a computer and finish that letter.

"No problem," he said, and then sat down and began to talk, while I typed away at the letter. I was pretty focused, and able to concentrate on what I was writing and block everything else out, including him. He was telling a story of some kind. How can someone proceed to tell someone else a story, who is typing away at 35 words per minute?

In as "cool" a way as I could muster, I said: "It's hard for me to concentrate on this..."
"Oh, sure," he kind of apologized, but kind sounded offended.

Then, as I resumed writing the letter, I found it hard to concentrate because Travis was then sitting almost absolutely still in the chair next to me. It felt as if he was waiting for me to finish. I wished that he had gotten up and maybe looked out the window, or glanced at the bulletin board, or walked out into the lobby for a little while, to "leave me alone," so I could finish the letter.

I wondered if this was what "passive aggressiveness" was about. I had basically asked him to stop talking, and now he was putting up a deafening wall of silence; waiting for me to finish up, so he could resume the "conversation," perhaps.

We were soon at my apartment.

When Travis was crashing on the couch, that was his "area" of the apartment, and I would sit in one of the chairs when I hung out with him. I had reclaimed the couch, though. There were the 2 guitar magazines there, as if I had been sitting on the couch and reading them. And on the table in front was other evidence of my having made that my spot.

Travis went and sat on the couch, relegating me to the same chair where I had sat before, when I had to listen to him talk non-stop. He then began to talk non-stop. He was telling me the plot line to "Great Expectations," by Charles Dickens. A book that I have read twice. One of only a handful of books that I have read twice. "I know, I've read it twice," I said about 10 minutes into our "discussion."

This had the potential to be a nightmare -a Tuesday night spent listening to Travis talk.
I had to do something. I called Willy's number again.

"He's not answering, I don't know what to say. It's almost time for me to go out and play.
He fixed me with a look for a half second that almost seemed to say: "Isn't this more important?"
Then, I thought of a plan whereby I could become free of the situation.

I called David the Water Jug Player, who answered his phone from the corner of Bourbon and Canal Streets and said that he definitely could get Travis 40 dollars worth of the "loud" weed from the Rastafarian guys who hand out in that same area.

Once we were out of the apartment, I directed Travis to the trolley, telling him to get off at Bourbon Street, and then I rode my bike to the same spot, arriving there a little before the trolley, with enough time to deal with David one on one, before Travis could walk up looking like a narc because he doesn't look like a narc, and thus would look like a narc to anyone doing a 40 dollar deal on that nickel and dime corner...

I got to the Lilly Pad pretty late, made 14 bucks and went back home, having learned the lesson that I just can't hang around with Travis. He talks too much, and is too insistent upon making his point, when he has one to make, which is less than half of the time...
 
*the amount of light coming in the window would be about the same at or around those times.