It was a Friday, November 24th, 2023, when I reached behind to the little Latin American woven basket in the headboard behind me (Marian Heller had given this to me after one of her trips, c. 2002) and found a number of rosaries that had belonged to Michael’s mother. Michael was still alive, breathing shallowly, though he had not spoken in a week. I took one of the rosaries and placed it in his hand, which grasped it, out of reflex probably. I also found a little bracelet of wooden beads with a copper token dangling from it: on one side a “1” and on the other the word “FEED.” This was some favor from a 10k I paced in September 2012, at this point the last 10k I ever ran for any reason. I put the bracelet on and continued to wear it for the next year. I put on my quilted Barbour coat and went down to St. Patrick’s (this might have been before, or during, the 5:30 Mass) and began or continued a novena to St. Jude. At this point I was no longer praying for Michael’s recovery. I prayed for his soul. And I cried. I cried much of the night. I suppose I drank a lot of vodka because I have no memory of doing anything else after walking back home from the Cathedral. Sometime after 5 a.m. I reached over to Michael and he was cold. He had stopped breathing. I got onto Facebook and sent a message to Young Brian, that his Uncle Moki had just died. I never heard back from Brian. I don’t know what I did for the rest of the day, I left no diary entries from the time. I suspect I may have gone out and bought a liter of vodka from the Chinawoman and drunk a good deal of that, and slept through much of the day. Next day, late morning, I decided to phone 911.
I’m still wearing the wooden bracelet. I have disturbed very little of the bedroom since Moki died. I have Moki Mouse in bed next to me so I am not alone. There is still a series of pill vials along the top of the headboard on Moki’s side, and some more pill bottles on the credenza. I’ve cleaned the bathroom, mostly, and figured out how it became so filthy and lacked a toiled seat for many months. I’ve tossed out the heap of clothes he left on top of his wicker hamper, and now use the wicker hamper for my own laundry. I still cry when I think about him, I am crying now. Fortune seems to be smiling bleakly at me at this moment; I apparently am beginning a steady job (about which, more later).
Yesterday, Saturday, my workday began at 8 a.m., talking to this Sally at Hoolio. My mission for the next few hours was to go over to the Apple Store and buy $5000 worth of equipment, including two MacBook Pros, with the M4 chip. Then send the MacBook, and an iPad Pro, to my “supervisor” in Newark, whom I imagine to be the worst sort of unlikely non. We didn’t think this through at all, as Sally wanted me to ‘overnight’ the package via UPS, but that was impossible. Meanwhile I could have taken the things to Newark, myself, in one hour. I expect that in 2 or 3 days I will insist on traveling out there myself to save another day or two’s turnaround.
To liquor stores today, not for booze to drink, myself, but for some Kraken Black Spiced Rum for Dottie. The Chinawoman’s had it for $34, but the Hells Kitchen Wine & Liquors on West 55th between 9th and 10th had it for 28 and change, $31 or so with tax. Dottie also wanted a lime, so I bought two at Whole Foods, along with milk (going through half-gallons very quickly, and they are the cheapest at WF) and a Blake’s chicken pot pie and a frozen burrito…both of which I ate within an hour or two of getting home.
Watched Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo last night and this morning/afternoon. I remembered a very long, drawn-out third act (after a jolly first hour to the film), with Van Johnson hiding out with the other pilots in China and finally losing his leg. A sad, bleak story with a ray of happiness. He gets back with his wife, though he’s ashamed of the way he looks. Tough Col. Doolittle (Spencer Tracy) bucks him up, tells him he’s putting him back to work.
