The art of conversation

On Sunday, I in Fort Lauderdale, called C in New York.

“Hey there.”

That is what he says when he is napping, about to nap or napped.

“You know it’s cooler down here than it is in Central Park.”

I know. It’s 95 here.”

“Oh well. What is that poem Kitty used to recite? ‘Something, something something. When it’s hot he wants it cold. When it’s cold he wants it hot. Always wanting what is not.’ Probably G.K. Chesterton. Anyway, I am just calling to say that we no longer have a kitchen down here. It’s gone. They ripped it out. Hauled it away. Just a big cavity left. I walked round and round in it. And that wall is gone too, so you know how you used to be able to sit on the toilet and if you had the door open you could look at the ocean through the kitchen? Well now you can see twice as much ocean from the toilet, plus the TV, so I really can’t see any reason to get off it unless its bed time.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Hmmm. Well. I can tell you’re delirious with excitement. Anyway, the plumber arrives tomorrow and the electrician the next day and then something called the “roughing in” happens which I think is like the Rapture, and then the countertop people come to make a template. I don’t know why, but I am over-le-top excited about the making of the template and I would miss the Academy Awards before I’d miss this. I think it was the tone of voice they used when they told me I had to be present to sign off on the template once it was created. So ominous. You could almost hear the screaming of customers-past shouting ‘That’s not what I ordered’, or ‘It’s not my fault that it doesn’t fit.’ Anyway, given that we are using quartz, the making of the template is literally written in stone, so I’m going to get lots of sleep the night before and I’ll have no coffee until it’s made and I will photograph everything so that when they deliver something that looks like a Celtic knot, I can triumphantly produce the exonerating evidence of their malpractice.”

“Or, maybe everything will go swell.”

“Oh isn’t that just like you. Always suspecting the best. Oh and guess what. I signed up for a drawing class.”

“Down there?!”

“Yes, down here. Maybe it’s not as brain-dead down here as we have been thinking. Maybe it just takes a little searching to find the people who think and do. I saw an ad for this class that meets every Tuesday night and I visited the gallery where it is held and found out that they meet every other Tuesday in the off-season which is what we’re having and the next one is this Tuesday, so I signed up. The lady said there is a live nude model, and that this week it would be a male and that it’s going to be Mario. She sort of whispered the last bit as if it was extra-significant and well worth the fifteen dollar fee. I arched my back and told her that it didn’t really matter to me whether the model was alive or naked or male or female, and that really, an eggplant interestingly positioned on a Styrofoam plate would do just as well. She sort of ignored this so God knows what I’m in for but I’ve packed some extra purple pastels and some poppers just in case. Honey? Honey, are you awake?”