(6) Girlfriends And Trophy Wives
Was it worth the minutes he was giving to it, this idle comparison between girlfriends and trophy wives? Probably not. Not much more than a peccadillo of the idle rich really. They each filled a role, he supposed. But making people fill roles made him uncomfortable. People were more than the roles they played. They deserved greater respect and recognition of dignity than snugly fitting a role life assigned. But how to assure they were given that particular due? And what about teasing and general jocularity? Without their leavening influence wouldn’t the drive for respect quickly reach unbearably formality, with the bows and scrapings of old? Funny what a short conversation with your mother could do. Ethical turmoil in a teacup.
And that’s how he resolved it. Preparing tea properly and quaffing it with slow delight. Twinings Rose Pouchong in proper china cups. And, to add a small measure of bliss, Paul O’Dette’s take on the John Dowland lute compositions. By the fifth piece he had fully entered that resonant Elizabethan serenity. Teacup in hand, half-raised to lips, he paused to enjoy the poise.
You didn’t have to be wealthy for this; he’d done exactly the same on many occasions in his apartment, on bus driver days off, listening to the same music. He could hear echoes of some of his earnest lefty friends pointing out his not inconsiderable TTC salary and lack of squirming children. He’d asked, somewhat defensively, if they’d rather he was out chasing up potential wives, pointing out some of the severely soured marriages around them. They’d hummed and hawed, retreating to another position. God knows what they’d say about him now. Donate to the NDP? Donate to the Greens? Give away free cases of beer on a Friday night? No, probably not, but it would get a laugh or two.
He enjoyed the aromatic beverage, allowing it and the lute tones to lull him into what was bound to be a false sense of security. His recent adventures in the land of intrigue had taught him one thing for sure: that peace was always a temporary oasis surrounded by anxiety inducing activities. Enjoy it while you can had become his motto, although even uttering it felt unwise. But he did enjoy, and was left untroubled by encroaching tides to do so. Even the ghost of Lara kept back, somehow wary of interrupting his down time. She decided to be a yoga ghost in the conservatory and found the poses and stretches to be almost absurdly easy in her new rubbery body. She chuckled to herself thinking how happy all her yoga bunny buddies would be when they were dead. Perfect posture every time.
His false sense of security proved remarkably robust, keeping him calm and cheery for what seemed like ages. A wander through the internet revealed, amongst other points of interest, a Guardian profile of ex-pres Jimmy Carter, whose Carter Foundation was still up to all kinds of good. Now there was a fine home for ten of his thousands, surely. The details were bookmarked. He felt good about himself. But maybe he did anyway, like… before. Ah yes, the worthiness issue, here it comes again. Would he have to keep supplying worthy causes with cash to keep up his ever sagging pride? He hoped not. Surely his self-esteem should come from within? Especially at his age. He made a note to work on it, and lessened the pressure by moving to some Youtube music videos, which gave him space to be the keen fan.
A half hour later, or maybe more, he left that enchanted glade with the melody fragments of The Mist Covered Mountains Of Home chasing through his brain, having just witnessed three separate versions by the icon of British folk guitar John Renbourn, and another by an accomplished amateur in homage to the master. Why these old melodies haunted him, and us, he couldn’t say. Well, he could, but he’d just be parroting the latest trendy theory. Whether it was in our psyches, our blood, our DNA, or hung heavily in the etheric atmosphere of Ancient Albion he wanted not to care, he merely wanted to be enmeshed in their magic. That would be the mystical view he supposed.
