(Hello! Just a reminder that these pieces are part of a new collection I am calling Muffy Edelstein Talks Smack. This collection is more irreverent than you might be used to reading from me-consider yourself warned. Also, I am working on a new collection of world-building prose. Not sure yet where I will post it but it will likely be on this Substack under a new header.)
It is a beautiful day in early August. Doug, Kyle and I are sitting quietly looking out at the boats in the harbor and further out to the bay. Wind chimes sound in the background. A damp warm wind tickles my neck. A water taxi pulls into the dock, the chatter of passengers sounds festive and full of joy. Pickup trucks navigate the sloping landing, lowering small boats into the water. Directions are given in a dialect that alerts my heart that I am home. “A little fahther,” it says. “Yah, that’s it. Lowa, lowa, nice.”
I watch as a family of three, father and two young children, prepare to embark in their Whaler. It is a perfect day for such an adventure. I close my eyes and rest for a moment. The scent of the ocean is strong.
“Ooop, he has lost interest,” says Kyle. “Fifteen seconds, not bad.” He adds. The sarcasm is palpable.
I open one eye, reluctant to commit more of myself than that to this interruption. I take in the scene unfolding. Ugh. This has trouble written all over it. I sigh. Kyle nods.
The little boy, no more than 10 or 11, has abandoned his station. He is dicking around on the other side of the dock and jabbing some found object, sort of like a javelin, into the dock itself. I notice him trying to pull the metal rod out of the old dock. Once liberated, he begins stabbing the water with it. Who leaves a rusty tool like that behind?
I look towards Kyle and he points my attention to the little girl. She must be his younger sister. No more than 7 or 8. Her attention to the task is sublimely heartbreaking. She is still on task, still attending to her station. She looks resolute, holding the rope with what appears to be all of her might and concentration. The boat moves against the dock and the back end swings out wildly away from the dock.
And then she starts to whimper. She is getting tired.
“Where the fuck is the dad?” I ask.
“Probably sexting in the car,” Doug replies.
We chuckle.
“Probably working one out,” Doug adds.
I am an easy mark and Doug knows my number.
I start laughing.
Kyle does not.
“You two are fucking weird,” Kyle adds.
If it weren’t for the shifting circumstances, Kyle would still be shaking his head at us.
Doug proceeds to amplify the absurdity. I am literally a sitting duck.
“Just one more second,” Doug moans.
“For fuck’s sake,” Kyle says.
“Touchy, touchy,” Doug says.
“He’s getting old, Doug. Cut him some slack,” I add.
“We all are.” Doug grumbles.
Caught in our call and response, Doug and I miss the beat. Not Kyle. Kyle has had his eye on the prize the entire time. Slowly Kyle shifts his weight in anticipation of standing and moves into the unfolding storyline.
Without warning he is jumping up from the bench like a 40 year old and begins hobbling in the direction of the dock. The little girl clearly lost her grip and the boat is now moving away from the dock. We all see her leaning too far out from the dock.
“Stop!” I holler in her direction. She looks perplexed. She is in the air, falling toward the water.
I yell out across the parking lot.
“For Christ’s sake, no one can hear you, Muffy!” Doug says. He begins yelling.
I shake my hand dismissively in Doug’s direction as I move towards the dock. I’m not sure how I expected this to go, but I am a bit frozen. I cannot get down on the dock to reach my hand out in hopes of helping the little girl. I attempt to use the rod as a grab bar, but my tremor is so active the rod has become more of a hindrance than a helpful tool.
So I point my energy in the direction of the little boy. “See what happens when you don’t pay attention!” I growl. The little boy cries harder and I feel shame and full of regret for my misplaced rage. But how do I tell a 10 year old kid that my anger is about me and my failing body and my perceptions of my ineptitude?
Doug steps in gallantly and mediates. He even gets the boy to smile. Meanwhile, a soaking wet and cold Kyle has saved the day! The little girl clings to his neck until her father arrives.
Finally, the father comes running in the direction of the dock.
Dad is joined by a posse of younger dudes. Their comportment says, we got this, you can all return to your regularly scheduled programming.
The kid looks terrified. Doug waxes philosophically. “Kid, this won’t be the last time you experience this feeling. But do your future self a favor. Don’t let it become a vampire. It’s just part of the gig, ok? Being human is a tough thing.”
The child nods agreeably. “Give me five.” Doug says. The two bump fists.
Doug, Kyle and I sigh in unison. Another crisis averted. Just three average humans at your service.
We blow off some steam, throwing insults and accusations around.
“You look like a wet cat.”
“Remind me, if I need saving, to not rely on you to holler for help.”
“What planet were you on and what were you smoking?”
We take up residence again on our bench overlooking the harbor. Kyle and I pass a thermos back and forth. Doug is feigning offense. “Excuse me, don’t I get a sip?” He asks.
“Sure,” I say and hand him the thermos.
He looks at me suspiciously. “What’s in it?” Doug asks. “Just try it, Doug,” Kyle and I say together.
Doug inhales the woody scent and looks at me with a question mark on his face.
“Chaga,” I say, laughing.
Now it’s time for Doug to roll his eyes.
We are off duty.
But really, are we ever off duty?
Doug places his head on Kyle’s shoulder and I place my head on his other shoulder.
We have been on duty with each other for decades. It is hard work and often it sucks.
But we know that being on duty with each other, day in and day out, has created the conditions for this moment of grace. This messy, crazy, imperfect grace.
I wouldn’t want it any other way.