"You, Drink Espresso?"

 

“You drink espresso?” He queried. He appeared astonished that I’d ever drank espresso. It was as if he didn’t think I needed it. “Oh Yeah. I just made a shot on the stove this morning.” I stated casually, as I bit into my bagel with lox and cream cheese sandwich—after devouring a whole meal of avocado-mango salad. “And you’re going to eat that whole thing?” He asked as I was chomping down on the sandwich again. I nodded, paused. “Yeah. I had no breakfast, except for the 40 ounces of water, grass, chlorophyll and the espresso with oat milk frothed in it I’d made before my morning run. So, like—Yeah. I make my own Cuban Espresso.” Meanwhile, he’s watching my 102lb body devour over 1,200 calories for our lunch meeting. And I think this is normal.

As I chewed, he spoke. He seemed mesmerized at my ingestion of huge quantities of food. As I’m thinking, ‘Hey buddy, you’ve been following me, filming me for over a decade. You’ve seen me devour 30 ounces of steak in one sitting haven’t you?’ I said none of the sort though. Probably because we were talking about filmmaking, writing, odds and ends of how life is now. I told him stories about the buildings in the local area. Which ones were built at certain times in the last eighty years.

I told him stories about my father-in-law, food, and parties I used to throw for family, the kids. “You enjoyed doing that?” He asked. “Well, I uh. I love to serve people. I like to see people enjoy themselves. But I don’t like being with them. I’d be in the kitchen with a glass of wine or cup of coffee and watch them on my deck—in my yard eating the food I’d made. I enjoy that. Me alone and them out there.” I replied.

 We chatted as we dined in my husband’s favorite place to eat for some celebrations. Now after Norm’s passing had become one of my favorite places, I’d go to once a year, about that much.

I told Bob about “The Fireplace”, that now no longer exists. It was my mother-in-law’s favorite place for hamburgers. I spoke of what one of my husband’s aunts said when she’d come to one of our children’s combined birthday parties with 35 children on our property. “Jody, you got guts.” She’d said, as she walked her over 93-year-old body through our backdoor from the deck with my mother-in-law—leaving the area where the children had just finished painting pumpkins. And now then it was time for the ‘Great Candy Hunt’ in our backyard.

Bob already had an inkling from what I’d come from, although it hadn’t been part of the story that he was working on since the end of 2010. He’d been quite successful with receiving Oscars and a plethora of nominations in such works too. We spoke about who trained him in film, which I was more than familiar with. He’d been doing this for decades. We talked about Robert Redford and how he’d worked with his son. That day, as we were still stunned that Robert Redford had passed. It was like that guy was never going to die. He seemed immortal.

Hours later, I was driving up north for a three-day getaway. I’d had enough of the news, the political landscape. I needed to clear my head. I was thinking strategically about the goings on in our nation. Not something we’d spoken about at lunch. Yet weighed heavy on my mind. As I drove, I wondered if I’d write, thinking about my widowhood more now, as it’d always remained on my mind over the past five years. Aside from worrying about our children, as I always do. No one knows this, but I have a PhD. in worrying. I don’t even think Bob knew that. He’d passed a remark about a decade ago, “You’re never dismayed.” My brain then did a loop-de-loop in that he had no idea. Not something I’d shared in the bukoo hours of filming.

Once I arrived at my destination, still feeling the fullness of the lunch hours before, I unloaded items into my hotel room, changed my clothing and went for another run for over 30 minutes. I could feel everything starting to digest completely, finally. I knew I’d be having some dried fruit for dinner with a cup of coffee perhaps and water as I’d figured out the thousands of channels on the television in the hotel room before bed. I was not used to more than a handful of channels at home. I’m frugal, I came from nothing. I fear having, and economically I know who I am. I stay within my range.

So, this morning as I did house chores, folded laundry—grateful I’d gotten two floors washed last night before settling down. My mind during the day yesterday and over the past few days was on how I’d watched and taken care of people aging. And yes, we’re all going to die. I’d been clear with that since age eight for certain. Whether it was by sword, fire, or disease, it was one’s own private leaving. I’d been asking myself, as I had since I could remember, “What information do I leave here and what information do I take that no one would ever know?” I told so many stories in my office, in other’s homes, sometimes on fields, at universities, on long runs and functions. But who grasps it all? I figure no one. I’ve asked myself, “How deep does it touch?”

I’d had a number of people say, “You make me think. And you’re deep.” Quite often I’ll attempt to express something that comes to me automatically, thinking everyone else goes to those depths in their mind. I’ve found most have revealed they aren’t doing that type of digging. I think most are riding the wave of life. Or they’re too oppressed to think, they sleep because they need to in-between jobs and perhaps family. I know that life.--- Jody-Lynn Reicher