prev Eleanor, Paul, and me next
2002-11-18 | 7:59 p.m.

Feeling a little Eleanor Rigby tonight. Feeling like some old I-shall-wear-purple lady urging candy corn on the plumber in April, because he's the first person who's been in the apartment since Halloween, when she bought the candy "just in case" for the trick-or-treaters who never came. Taking horticulture classes at the community college and art at the senior center. On Wednesdays, watch a video for fifty cents. Includes popcorn. I will have a bus pass and eat lunch at the same place three times a week, I'll bet you. I'm such a creature of habit. Makes me feel like Joyce, who ate out with his family every night in Paris. I guess Nora couldn't cook. I'll think of him even if I'm pinching pennies at Morrison's cafeteria. Delusions of grandeur.

But who knows? Maybe I'll surprise everyone and move to Europe. Be poor there instead of here. It could happen. Maybe I'll make something of myself late in life. There's still time for me. Like Colonel Sanders. He almost kidnapped somebody, some kid. Changed his mind at the last minute and started a chicken restaurant instead. I know it's true because I heard it on Paul Harvey. Did you know that Lincoln kept his wife locked in the cellar? I heard that on Paul Harvey, too. My Dad liked to listen to Paul Harvey every afternoon, and I was so fascinated by the stories I checked out his book from the library. Paul Harvey. Isn't he dead yet? His pauses made me nervous. Always afraid he wasn't going to pick it up again.

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