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October 10, 2002  Caruso's Italiano Ristorante- Melrose So it used to be the notebooks, those steno jobs roughly half the size of a notebook page, made for secretaries, stenographers, whatever, which begs the question why do they even make em any more? I filled dozens of them over the years. And most always, unless I sufficiently bulwarked against the ill winds of self-consciousness with sufficient libation, there was that little twinge of embarrassment. Now no more steno books, and thank god therefore no more tryin to transcribe the fuckers. But still there is the twinge. One glass of Caruso's home-made red just isn't enough. So out comes the collapsible keyboard and the palm and whammo. Just like that i go from silent guy in the corner with no friends drinking alone to guy in the corner with no friends and some suspicious lookin hardware at his fingertips, the kind of voodoo black magic shit that steals yer soul and turns good, God-fearing citizens into frogs, bats, browning banana peels. From ghost to spook. From lonely guy to corner spy.  But this is all frosting and foam weirdness with nothing at all to do with what i sat down to say. I take another sip of vino. Melrosians are coming in now, coming through the door in flocks and frocks and junior high sports team shirts. Another sip of wine. I got about a half an hour before I gotta bail, hop in the Thunder Brougham and bad-muffler-it back to 120 Ashland Street for the now-ritual 7 p.m. dinner with Widow Coleman. Another slug of wine. I take notice of my right thigh, bouncing as it is to some allegro rhythm that it alone is privvy to. The rest of my body, with the exception of course of my typing fingers, perfectly still. Weird thing, the body. At this point I have no idea what I set out to write about tonight. Back in the men's room when I first came in, took a piss, washed my face and tried to relax after the vicious screwdriver duel i'd just had with the car tape player, said machine having eaten a Gershwin cassette and in so doing incapacitated the entire stereo. No music. Bad thing, no music. Looking back now on Cricket and I's cross-Texas jaunt in Duke, I'd be willing to bet the lack of stereo sound was the very thing that jinxed it all. The horror. So in the men's room, I suddenly grow calm. I interrupt my brain's trained speedy hand-washing ritual long enough, long enough.. to... to.. (if you can believe it) remove my loathsome glasses and bathe my face gently, lovingly with tap water. It's not much, I know. But the power of it. It meant something. I lightly lifted water to my face and washed my closed eyelids with the grace and serenity of a nun at the holy water bowl or some mushroom-stoned monkey staring at his own reflection in a jungle river far, far away. Two weeks ago I filled a fat scrip of K in a Juarez farmacia and walked right back across the Mexican border. It was fucking poetry. Right out of a movie about smugglers and shit! (But in reality totally legal) And with this act I essentially sealed my fate for the coming year: I would be safe, free to be stoned on K as needed, free of anxiety whenever or wherever I wanted.  No more heinous withdrawals in a N'awlins shotgun shack because my X had pulled the HMO plug. No more freakin and freakin some more over people and crowds and loud, loud noises and the overly bright Houston sun. The K was my insurance against anxiety, once given by doctors here but lately impossible to procure without health insurance and a steady shrink. Now I was insured again, insured and assured and I was grateful. Oh my god was I grateful. But suddenly in the bathroom, in the very sink sunk in the kitchen of Carouso's family Italian restaurant bent over and splashing gentle water in my face with the patience and serenity of monks, mule deer, the dead, suddenly I thought maybe I'll be all right anyway, with or without the K. I love life and all its quiet little lessons. To the "dolce vita," Lord Duke RSM [postscript..] Dusk and the last light of day lingers on Ell Pond in Melrose. Leaving Carouso's just now I was blessed with one of those rare moments in life when all is La Dolce Vita. Literally no sooner had I written those words than I stood up, stowed my gear, walked to the counter and expressed interest in buying a bottle of Mr. Carouso's wine to take with me. The ensuing ballet was so beautiful. First there was this look of doubt on the counter girl's face, then the summoning of the boss. Now lubricated with two glasses of his Sangre-of-Christi red juice, I had no problem expressing not only what i wanted but saying also, "I love your restaurant, Mr. Carouso. "I used to come here when I was a little boy (gesture of hand down to hip height), until my parents moved me to the West. I'm here visiting now, so glad to be back. I was only wondering if I could buy some of your fine homemade wine to go." Then came the looking. The looking that is not-looking, that is looking instead all around the room like somebody might be spying on us...????.. so let's nail this deal and be done with it. Don Carouso gestured and I followed him to the dimly lit back room where the cask of wine, a funnel, and a battery of empty bottles sat. Ahh! Home at last.  "Mr. Carouso," I added, "I really enjoy the atmosphere of your restaurant. It has such style and such a family feeling. Makes a traveler such as myself feel at home." There ensued several rambled orders in Italian, and the same counter girl, the one I'd spooked out front, went to work pouring me a bottle from the keg. Don Carouso waved goodbye, and I believe, in his way, said thank you for my words and for my love of his wine. The girl corked the bottle, bagged it, and handed it over. "Ten," was all she said. I gave her the ten spot in my hand, caught the attention of the kid who'd been waiting on me before, and tossed a few bucks his way. I walked out high as a kite. Mind you, this is Melrose, the same place that cold-cocked Danny and me a few nights ago. I was a blessed son, and I knew it. Lord Duke RSM
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