From the living room window, still wide open in the cool October evening, we sees trains pass through the city behind the trees. Blue sparks light up the brick buildings beyond. Or, I suppose we could see it if Paulie weren’t working at the Pentagon, Larry weren’t sleeping on the floor and I weren’t trying to figure out what I missed on last week’s American Chopper.
On Saturday, I shut the apartment door and found myself surrounded by my older neighbor’s vintage sixties modern bedroom furniture. He offered it to me. Of course, we have no room for such things – or anything, really. One more auto part and we’ll have to build a loading dock off the fire escape. I declined, mentioned Highland Park’s town-wide garage sale, and flitted off someplace. This morning, I fought a wave of panic when I opened the back door and found a big pile of Judaica books on the picnic table. There were also books on topics like nutrition and contemporary politics. These can only be the books of my neighbor, and what could cause him to put them outside like this? I didn’t know, but I did see books I could send to the workhouse and scooped them up. Tomorrow if there are more out there I’ll take them to work with me.
One of the books on the table: Robert Eisenmann’s James, the Brother of Jesus. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It’s the book I didn’t know I was looking for; I didn’t even know it existed. It’s serendipity.
Finished transcribing my column. It could be funnier, you know, if it were, ah, funny.