Monday at the Bay

On Monday afternoon, I left work at a few minutes past one and headed to the Bay.

One of the unexpected advantages of living in California and as an employee rather than an employer has been the potential for paid sick leave, which California mandates. I’ve chosen to use some to finally visit an eye doctor who might understand the optho-neurological implications of my weird existence. I haven’t had functioning glasses since I left Kansas City. Every eye doctor whom I’ve seen to date could correct two, but not all three, of my vision fields at the same time. I’ve opted for glasses that allow me to drive and recognize faces. For everything else, I squint.

But I got a lead on someone knowledgeable. By way of the kindness of strangers, I got a referral, a review, and then an appointment. This doc sees children and adults with my particular disorder. I’m hopeful the waiting room will have at least one Mugwump-sized chair.

The hostels have re-opened for solo travelers. Ft. Mason’s one has an ADA suite, and I’m sitting at its kitchen table watching the light rise over the Bay. Earlier what I took for a reflection on the window proved to be a boat passing with its sail unfurled. A gentle rain touches the glass now and then.

This wing has two guest rooms. The other one has at least two occupants, one of whom seems a bit fuzzy about reality. The other speaks very little English. I heard her trying to buy laundry soap from the front desk. Frustrated with his simple explanation of the amount required for the exchange, she finally handed him a bunch of folded American dollars. He gingerly extracted two and slid the rest back toward her. She’s lucky this place hires mostly woke young libs who wouldn’t dream of cheating her.

Sitting near the east-facing window yesterday, I spied an ancient outbuilding in front of which a brave row of surprise lilies fluttered in the wind. I thought about my friend Samantha and her proclivity for photographing rusty tractors. I couldn’t help but turn my cell phone’s camera toward the sight. Hopefully Sam will see the picture and know that she’s on my mind.

Later I sat at a picnic table and watched people stroll down to the public marina. Dogs and babies outnumbered the grown-ups. I could see the clouds gathering to the west. Sunset would happen on the edges of a foggy roll of rain. I sat for a few more minutes, watching the traffic weave itself around the rows of buildings rising to the sky. Later, I slept as I always sleep near the voice of my Pacific: deeply, long, and without interruption.

It’s the fourteenth day of the one-hundred and eleventh month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.