Because Sunny no longer has easy access to an outdoor area at Carmichael Oaks, she and I soon develop a habit of early morning walks. There’s still a lot that needs to be cleared out of the house and, since Mike generally sleeps until 8 or after these days, my pattern is to walk Sunny around 6 or 6:30 in the morning, then take her with me to Promontory Point for an hour or so of packing and organizing while Mike still sleeps. But on this particular morning we’ve only been at the house for a few minutes when I get a call from the front desk person saying that Mike has been standing out front waiting for someone. Maybe he’s confused about the time?
“Is he wearing a tuxedo?”
“Yes.”
“Would you please ask him to come to the phone so I can talk with him?”
When Mike picks up, he says he’s been waiting for Don, who usually picks him up for Camerata rehearsals, but Don never came.
“The concert isn’t until tomorrow,” I tell him.
“I don’t know where Don is,” he says in that angry voice that is now nearly standard.
“It isn’t time. Just go back upstairs. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll just wait here.”
“No. Go on back to the apartment. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
I lift Sunny into the car and rush back to Carmichael Oaks. Mike is standing out front, in his tuxedo, with his music folder, waiting. He gets in the car, and I drive the half-block or so to our designated parking spot.
“Aren’t you going to take me to the concert?”
“It’s not until tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, not sounding convinced.
Knowing that Mike no longer understands time, and knowing that he’s anxious not to be late to whatever is coming up—a rehearsal, dinner, any appointment—I struggle to be patient, to tamp down my irritation.
Back at the apartment I suggest he put on other, more comfortable clothes, which he does, reluctantly. Eight in the morning is a little early to do the sort of shopping I have planned for the day—a few more over-the-door hooks from Organize It, some things from Trader Joe’s for when Jeannie and Bill will join us early in the evening for drinks and appetizers. But errands seem the best defense against Mike’s desire to be picked up in his tuxedo 30 hours ahead of time. We go to the market for a red bell pepper. We drop a few things off at the cleaners. We drive to Organize It. Not open until 10. We go to Target—open at 9—to replace our topless martini shaker. On to Best Buy, where I want to look at small desktop printers. Not open until 10. We drive, very slowly, to O’Brot Café in Folsom, where we sip lattes and I count the minutes until the outlet stores will open. Once the little hand is on 10 and the big hand on 12, we enter the Bose outlet where we (I) find and purchase a much-needed upgrade to our ancient portable boom box. Back to Organize It, then to Carmichael Oaks and our apartment, where Mike immediately dons his tuxedo and wants me to take him to the concert.
“Not yet,” I tell him.
“I’m going!”
“It’s not time.”
He takes his jacket off, throws it on the floor, and stomps into the bedroom. I call out after him, “Grow up!” Not helpful, I know. After a few minutes I suggest that Mike dress more casually for lunch. He puts on shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. We go downstairs to lunch, come back, and Mike puts on his tuxedo.
To quote Kurt Vonnegut, so it goes.