Last Night’s Yesterday.

“Hey, you,” and Mac appears at the food truck I’m considering outside of Thorn St.Brewery. She says she has to take a break–and quickly–so she and quickly, so she offers up some of the french fries that the truck accidentally deposited in that styrofoam compartment within the styrofoam container. She’s my favorite pourer and a few times I’ve watched her trick too-gone patrons into session ales when, in fact, they had ordered the quadruppel.
It’s been a while, but I like the medium volume of TSB on the weekend and when I can take an hour or so to write. Mac used to work weekends, but now works Wednesdays, and I miss our rapport. With greasy fingers we high-five in parting, and she’s still chewing her sandwich on the way back to her post by the spigots. There’s a rush of patrons.
I love this neighborhood and, in walking back home, I take the south side of the street which has a cleverly manicured bougainvillea. It pours like a barrel-form wave over a picket fence. Someone had a good idea when training the unruly hedge. There are sepals and thorns overhead and it’s like passing through a botanical tunnel. When the light’s right, red.
I grounded Cayde this morning after a pre-work, pre-school battle of wills. Getting dressed is not that hard, right? But it’s a battle and Cayde had a loose tongue that he apologized for later when driving home from school. It was one of those wandering conversations with encased apologies. He didn’t seek to earn back screen time; we just talked. Nonetheless, there was a certain scheming when he asked, “So if I go next door and THEY’RE watching TV, I don’t have to come back home, do I?”
Kids are so blankingly transparent. I decide upon, ‘No, Cayden.That’d be alright.”
But he didn’t go next door tonight and instead decided he wanted to play guitar with Daddy. I tried to make a math lesson of it all because C-scale instruments are the epitome of math.
Thelonius Monk used to bang block chords to insinuate the space in between the keys, which was something outside of math. I just show Cayde how to tune a guitar, and use the rules of fives. We play, meaning I fret the chords having forgotten to wash the french fry oil off my hands, and Cayde uses a spare skewer to bang on mason jar collars and a half-empty beer bottle.
Cayde insists we have a band name, and following a mad lib game of suggestions, we settle on ‘Last Night’s Yesterday.’ I think that’s a remarkable name to have come from a seven year old. The alternative is ‘White-bearded Guitarist’ which is not so much an alternative in my book.
He has three more days of restriction, so I re-tune my guitar and he goes to bed.

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