Going the Distance

Is this how it starts?

While packing for Chicago yesterday, I put my pill caddy and toiletries in the bottom of my backpack, then went to do something else.  While I was out of the room, the backpack fell off my bed and into my paper recycling bin.  Distracted and in a hurry, I picked the bag up, stuffed my clothes and laptop in it, and headed out the door, not realizing the medicine and shampoo and such had all fallen out.

A minor thing – we were only gonna be gone overnight, we were staying at a nice enough hotel that I could ask for a toothbrush, and skipping 24 hours of meds isn’t ideal, but it’s not the end of the world.  But for someone who used to travel every weekend, and who still considers himself a pretty savvy road dog, finding that stuff missing from my bag when I got to the hotel threw me for a loop.

I have to think everyone hits an age where things like this feel like they might be harbingers of decline.  Who doesn’t notice their bag is missing half its stuff?  What else have you been forgetting without even realizing it?  What’s the through-line between this and being too addle-headed to drive, or rent a hotel room, or go to a concert without an elaborate network of sighing younger relatives gently and exasperatedly leading the way for your big day out?

We were going to see Cake, a great band, but not exactly one to reinforce one’s idea of oneself as a hip youngster.  Having made the decision to stay downtown and Uber to the show, we navigated the Chicago evening fairly well for a quartet of mid-city rubes, grabbing dinner and a beer at Goose Island next door before venturing into the Salt Shed, the massive, repurposed warehouse-turned-venue.  Opened in 2022, the indoor area holds 3,600 people, and it was nearly full.

The show was a benefit for a local charity fighting hunger in Chicagoland, and Cake played two shorter sets with an intermission and no opening act.  They auctioned off a signed guitar and shilled for text donations to Beyond Hunger.  My son picked up a signed poster from the merch table, and then we headed in and established our presence around the midpoint of the cavernous room.

And just about the point during the intermission that I realized my feet hurt, my eyes were heavy, and that the weekend was catching up with me, I got flirted with!

This tall woman of an appropriate age made some comment about how we were both standing our ground while shorter and ruder people pushed past and through us to squeeze closer to the front of the stage.  I made some comment back about holding the line, she laughed, there was a hair flip and an arm touch, and a few minutes later it dawned on me.  (This is, alas, infinitely faster than my average time picking up signals back in the days when I was actually available).

It was respectful and graceful and sober, a moment of wholesome solidarity more than anything.  I think she realized within a minute or two that I was there with my wife and son, so she turned back toward her friends and the band, but stayed in proximity until the end of the show.  It didn’t mean anything, or lead to anything, and she’s probably already forgotten she did it.

But it put a big stupid smile on my face.  It was like getting a compliment on a new haircut, or a pat on the back for cooking a good meal.  It took a little of the sting out of being a dopey old man with cobwebby taste in music who forgets his little pill box and needs to lie down after two beers and a rock show.  And it was worth the brief bout of good-natured teasing I got about it from the rest of our party in the Uber back to the hotel.

I don’t really think I’m ready to be put out to pasture because I messed up packing a bag while distracted and in a hurry.  But it’s nice to be reminded you take up space in the real world and are seen, and that pleasant people with bluish streaks in their hair who look like they do tarot card readings on Zoom for Venmo payments might still sometimes find you cute enough for a little banter, as a treat.  Maybe if I commit to packing sooner and invest in more therapeutic shoes, I can keep getting on the rock and roll train under my own power for a while longer yet.