VERY WHITE
I am a happy man. Today I am moving. Moving back home.
Toward the end of Summer I was stricken with a respiratory ailment. Research revealed that our home was growing some kind of mold that was not so good for me. Almost instantly all our belongings were being packed into a large container in the driveway called a POD. The chickens were all relocated to our friend’s vineyard. Contractors swarmed tearing out walls and ceilings. Hazmat suited men waited in the wings for a dramatic entrance.
Roman and I were whisked away by the insurance company to an extended stay hotel some 20 miles away. We now had a small one-bedroom apartment-hotel room with an indoor pool, breakfast and maid service. Roman was not all that pleased with it and spent his days at the deconstruction / reconstruction site that we used to call home. I stayed away due to my lung condition.
We talked selling the farm. The sadness of our home being destroyed encouraged that kind of thinking. We both loved the farm too much to give it up. Even though we no longer had chickens it would always be our chicken farm.
I battled boredom by adopting a new look and personality. I pretended I was on a cruise and took to dressing in white as though I worked on the Love Boat. For the early part of the stay I was still on oxygen and had a bottle strapped to my back like a scuba tank. I thought it made me appear exotic but Roman said “exotic” was not what it was. He refused to elaborate.
I spent my days at the pool with the children of the other extended stay guests. It was rare that adults came to the pool, I’m not certain why. Grown-ups didn’t talk to me, maybe it was the oxygen tank. I told the kids my name was Barry White. They misunderstood and called me “Very White.” It was true my skin was colorless, my hair was white and my Love Boat attire did make a suitable name be “Very White.”
The oxygen tank and plastic tube in my nose brought the most questions. I explained that, unlike them, my ears were in my nose and this was my iPod. They just laughed. Kids are not so gullible.
After four months we were finally leaving the hotel. I no longer wore the oxygen tank. I no longer dressed in white.
The night manager called to me as I passed through the lobby. She was holding out a piece of mail. It was a sales letter offering a deal on a hearing aid addressed to “Very White.” I thought it would look very funny in my nose.
Toward the end of Summer I was stricken with a respiratory ailment. Research revealed that our home was growing some kind of mold that was not so good for me. Almost instantly all our belongings were being packed into a large container in the driveway called a POD. The chickens were all relocated to our friend’s vineyard. Contractors swarmed tearing out walls and ceilings. Hazmat suited men waited in the wings for a dramatic entrance.
Roman and I were whisked away by the insurance company to an extended stay hotel some 20 miles away. We now had a small one-bedroom apartment-hotel room with an indoor pool, breakfast and maid service. Roman was not all that pleased with it and spent his days at the deconstruction / reconstruction site that we used to call home. I stayed away due to my lung condition.
We talked selling the farm. The sadness of our home being destroyed encouraged that kind of thinking. We both loved the farm too much to give it up. Even though we no longer had chickens it would always be our chicken farm.
I battled boredom by adopting a new look and personality. I pretended I was on a cruise and took to dressing in white as though I worked on the Love Boat. For the early part of the stay I was still on oxygen and had a bottle strapped to my back like a scuba tank. I thought it made me appear exotic but Roman said “exotic” was not what it was. He refused to elaborate.
I spent my days at the pool with the children of the other extended stay guests. It was rare that adults came to the pool, I’m not certain why. Grown-ups didn’t talk to me, maybe it was the oxygen tank. I told the kids my name was Barry White. They misunderstood and called me “Very White.” It was true my skin was colorless, my hair was white and my Love Boat attire did make a suitable name be “Very White.”
The oxygen tank and plastic tube in my nose brought the most questions. I explained that, unlike them, my ears were in my nose and this was my iPod. They just laughed. Kids are not so gullible.
After four months we were finally leaving the hotel. I no longer wore the oxygen tank. I no longer dressed in white.
The night manager called to me as I passed through the lobby. She was holding out a piece of mail. It was a sales letter offering a deal on a hearing aid addressed to “Very White.” I thought it would look very funny in my nose.