Life’s Small Perversities Remind Us that We Are Not in Charge — Mariachis, Acoustic Guitar, and Sticky Fingers

© 2012 Peter Free

 

26 May 2012

 

 

You probably have to be over a certain age — or familiar with Buddhist philosophy — to relate to this bit of wry perspective

 

Too many years policing has left me deaf to high frequencies.  As well as subject to the interminable buzz of bilateral tinnitus.  The constant electronic whine sometimes gets loud enough that I can’t hear people speaking to me.  Loud noise characteristically makes everything worse.  So, I try to avoid noisy environments.

 

Ergo, this tiny sample of Life’s probabilistic perversity.

 

 

Trumpet blasts, confined space, and a low ceiling

 

Our lively Puerto Rican friend invited my wife and me to join her at a small Mexican restaurant.  Unbeknownst to her, it was mariachi night.

 

Six players.  Two trumpets.  Everyone going full blast in Mexico’s colorful tribute to the vibrance of living.

 

The band’s sound did not just reverberate.  It shook flesh.

 

I managed to barely mute the melodic assault with Kleenex in my ears.  And then spent the meal trying to lip read the conversation that our friend and my wife periodically tried to initiate.

 

Our friend, who knows sign language, incomprehensibly signed me.

 

The band began its circuit of the restaurant a table down from us.  And worked its table-to-table way around the eatery.

 

At one point, one of the trumpeters detached himself from the group and paraded at full throttle back our way, moving counter to the group’s circuit.  I could almost see the horn’s sound waves battering their unstoppable way toward us.

 

We managed to finish eating, just as the reunited group showed up again behind my wife’s chair.

 

Smiling ruefully, we left into the comparatively subdued traffic noise out the door.  Even my wife, an intrepid music lover, admitted that the crashing ambiance had been too loud.

 

 

Health food and more noise

 

The next morning, in honor of the coming Memorial Day, my Air Force wife decided that we should go to a health food oriented breakfast place at the base of Colorado Springs’ foothills.

 

Upon arrival, the gray morning was quiet and pedestrians were few.  High ceilings, historic decor, quiet tables, and a health-conscious menu.

 

What could possibly go awry?

 

An acoustic guitar sitting forlornly on a chair immediately behind mine served inauspicious warning.

 

Within seconds of our food arriving, a middle-aged man plopped himself into the seat and began serenading the place with the kind of music that might impress hippies, new agers, and even me at more “appropriate” times.

 

Zen’s love for stillness was again shattered.

 

This reminder of existence’s unpredictability did not end with unwelcome strumming.

 

 

Sticky fingers and a camera

 

My small bowl of watery oatmeal, sliced apple, and raisins came with two half-shot sized stainless steel cups.  One with almond milk.  The other with maple syrup.

 

In the absence of packets of diet sweetener, the table was adorned with a cup-sized mini-crock of raw sugar and a small, equally mini crock of honey — the latter complete with a wooden swirly honey-dripper.

 

You can guess what I managed to do with these.

 

The raw sugar had hardened into a lump just underneath a top surface of free-rolling granules.  When I tried to dump some into my coffee, the granules skittered off and around the rough surface of the dome-humped lump.  Bouncing unpredictably off the pottery rim.  I one-focused my attention to avoid making a mess.

 

During the process of skitter-flowing the sugar grains into my coffee cup, I imagined previous diners digging into the main sugar lump with already used spoons.

 

The handle of the wooden honey applicator proved to be sticky.  So did the sides of the maple syrup container.  And I couldn’t help visualizing the volume of bacteria and viruses happily living in the oft-used honey pot.

 

Hippy health.

 

My camera sat on the table, daring me to take pictures.  Before using it, I had to wash my fingers in the water glass.  The cheap paper napkin naturally shredded immediately, when I tried to dry them.

 

The best laid plans . . . .

 

At breakfast’s conclusion, I left the attractive establishment smiling.  Twice we had paid to have predictability dashed.

 

 

The moral? — Buddhist-like equanimity has its place

 

Even in the smallest of things.

 

Zen is, paradoxically, an active place.