I wallow in the fact I am no better equipped to cope at fifty-five than I was at twenty. When I feel good it’s like being able to play with the big kids again.

A comrade in arms, who fights his own special demons, lives in my building. He relished in the fact a branch of his bank was a block away and a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise two. He took it personally when the bank moved across the tracks and an A&W replaced the KFC. I was delighted. Years ago, when in a funk, a girl friend would take me to the drive-in and administer two teen burgers orally. It worked like a charm.

The restaurant opens at six. Getting out again seems worth the try; better than lying on the couch listening to the clock tick. Teen Burgers aren’t on the menu yet, but what the hell, a Bacon and Egger, hash browns and coffee should do the trick. The waitress is putting her key in the door as I arrive. She greets me with a smile. I feel at ease, in my element.

I enjoy the company of friends but don’t need them to get by. I do need the company of strangers, however.

Canadians by American standards are too polite. We are not backslappers or glad handers. This is fine by me. I believe in maintaining boundaries, in being courteous. Simple eye contact and a “Hi” or “How are you?” reinforce innate ties that bind.

I don’t know the waitress’ name nor she mine, but that doesn’t matter. She greets me with a smile and says the coffee is almost ready. I sit and wait. She comments on the weather. I follow suit.

Preliminaries over, I sit in silence, eating breakfast, and drinking coffee over yesterday’s paper. I am in the eye of the storm raging around me. Other regulars come and go. The black dog sits at the door waiting, but for now all is well. You would never know it but the sun rose while I was in the restaurant. Stepping back outside, the rain is coming down even harder. My Dodgers cap and jean jacket offer little protection.

Back home I put on a pot of coffee. I’m sensitive to caffeine. There must be a better delivery system than the cup. An IV drip, perhaps? There is a thin line between a pleasant buzz and cold sweat. Usually my coffee is stone cold by the time I finish it. The university library coffee machine used to kick out battery acid thinly disguised as coffee. One cup lasted all night

In the bathroom I put down the lid and sit on the toilet and ruminate about Elvis. He was found dead collapsed next to the toilet early one August morning. I am going to die. As I’m not suicidal I can’t choose the time and place. For an instant, however, this seems as good a time as any to slip into The Big Sleep. I’m not troubled, just bored. Lassitude defines my depression. The moment passes. I rise and face the mirror. I’m reinventing myself. Before moving into this apartment, I let myself go to pot. I had an aversion to water and my clothes were in tatters. I
I scuttled down the sidewalk eyes downcast.

Now my head is up. My hair is cropped short and my beard smooth. My clothes are clean and carefully chosen. I am vain enough to sport a moustache. I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. The morning stretches out before me like open ocean. The words “Monsters be Here” are written on 17th century maps over these uncharted waters.
My apartment is in a shambles: the sink is full of dirty dishes, the smell of garbage permeating everything, and the public barred from my bathroom.

The phone rings. It’s an old college roommate I haven’t seen in over twenty five years.
He is in town for a couple of days and would like to get together. We agree on lunch tomorrow.
I hang up the phone and frisk myself for cigarettes. I know smoking will only fuel anxiety. I light up anyway. I live in a bubble. Computer crashes or food stains and other tempests in teacups seem to portend catastrophe. Now I really have something to worry about.

Anxiety and depression are bosom buddies. Fear however is something else again.
I can face my fear and climb a mountain and yet panic when faced with paying a cashier.
I put on music. I go for Baroque. It is so mathematical, so precise, and yet majestic. Unlike the Romantic or the Classical music it is never intoxicating. It is cognitive Muzak, which isn’t very flattering except much of it was written as incidental music. It keeps my feet on the ground.

Lethargy gives way to pain. Tears well up. This is not self-pity just sadness. For the most part when I’m alone I’m not necessarily lonely, but right now I’d like to share the music and the moment. A “…tree falling in the forest….” question comes to mind. If I experience a beautiful moment can it really be beautiful if there is no one there to share it with? Of course it can. A life time of experience teaches me that. Perhaps I’m lonelier than I thought.
Ten years ago I was cognitively impaired to the point of catatonia. Crosswords helped me open new circuits in my brain and repair the damage. I download one from the internet and with the aid of the music stay focused. Now rather than a helpless cork bobbing on the stormy waters, I find my bearings.

The sadness is still there, but there is a lot to be said for sadness. Some confuse it with depression. I have been depressed as long as I can remember and only lately cried. Depression is undifferentiated pain. Sadness is more focused.

Lunchtime rolls around and once more and I venture out again. This time I take an umbrella. The rain has stopped. In the north, black clouds shroud the mountains and to the south, towards the border, the sun is shining