You'd Know That if You'd Read My Book

"Feelings, nothing more than feelings
"Trying to forget my feelings of ____"

I got off the phone with a long-term friend (30+ years). We have a history and he has an even bigger history than I. He had written a book and during the time he was writing the book I had to listen to him talk about the process of writing the book (being told that I was in the book). Now that the book is written, published, and available on AMAZON, our conversations would be centered around what I thought of the book. Well, I hadn't bought it and I had no intention of reading it.

I haven't spoken to him in probably nine months or so. He is rather self-centered and gets bent out of shape if I'm not asking questions about him and the book. In a moment of trying out reciprocity, he had asked me how my Mother was.

"My Mother? She passed away."

"What? Why didn't I know about it. You didn't call me."

"No I didn't. I posted it on Facebook. I couldn't get back east for the funeral. I saw it on ZOOM."

He was toking weed during the call. Maybe it was the dry cracking that I heard in his voice. Or the awkward pauses (phrasing). Or perhaps it was the long inhalations after which I would hear him start to speak with a smoke-filled exhalation.

He broke here and there from the book and told me of his current ailments. Neuropathy and edema. And he told me of the medications that he took for the conditions. And he shared how his doctors had prescribed Oxycodone and of how the drug prevented him from thinking.

My day job deals with knowing the disorders, degeneration, and/or infections of those who come into my room. Why do people think that I am interested in hearing about their conditions? Why do people think that I would have an opinion about drug dosing (especially if I hadn't been in contact with them in almost a year)? So I listened and was feeling more agitated and annoyed as the question of why I hadn't bought or read the book came up.

"I'm pretty busy at work. And, as a rule, I don't like to bring work home. So when I come home, I pretty much make myself dinner, feed the cat, and go to sleep."

"Oh," he said, "well, I was beginning to think that I was falling into the category of people that you call from your car when you're going from one place to another and just have blank, empty space to fill."

"Well, a**wipe, had it ever occurred to you that maybe phoning someone from inside my car is one of the few times and places when I can be completely private? I live with others and sometimes the walls have ears." (G*d forbid I should wash a dish or my hands while I am on the phone with this one because then I would be demonstrating that my attention is elsewhere).

O M G. I honestly can't remember the last time I had felt so attacked by someone who seemed to want to have a pleasant conversation. Well, it's going to be another 6-9 months before the next call happens.

Most folks who know me generally know that it is I who is the one who initiates contacts. And oddly enough, when someone tries calling me, he/they/it/she will sometimes initially say something such as, "Gee, I haven't heard from you in a long time. I hope everything is okay." To that, I generally reply with the standard, " As Mama used to say, 'The phone works both ways!' "

I'm actually not a particularly engaging person. I don't feel like expending the energy to read this guy's memoirs. Mind you, after 30+ years I had heard most of these stories already. Do I need to read about them? Do I care?

One thing's for sure. No one will ever have to worry about my writing down the story of my life followed by accusations as to why no one has read it.