{"id":893,"date":"2012-03-26T13:23:28","date_gmt":"2012-03-26T13:23:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/?p=893"},"modified":"2012-03-26T13:23:28","modified_gmt":"2012-03-26T13:23:28","slug":"conversations-with-god-iii-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/2012\/03\/26\/conversations-with-god-iii-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Conversations with God – III"},"content":{"rendered":"

I was browsing the merchandise in a strange little shop\u2014the kind of place you find in small towns on California\u2019s central coast, in the hills where the local industry is limited to oil pumps discretely camouflaged in\u00a0cul de sac<\/em>\u00a0little valleys, vineyards and tourists attracted to their companion tasting rooms. The little store occupied most of the space of the first floor of a small wooden building that, in the early 20th<\/sup>\u00a0century was a modest home. The walls, floor and ceiling held the rich, warm color of varnished wood, darker on the walls on which were hung small oil paintings\u2014landscapes that looked like places you are likely to see around this kind of town, hills redolent with fragrant, tall sweet grass, picturesque oaks carved out of blue skies in twisted shapes, crows and ravens. The merchandise was most curious by dint of its modest array\u2014there was very little. A wooden counter at the back wall held a few dark books, there were a few things on book shelves on the walls and wooden fixtures, which with three easy chairs and small tables, a couple bar stools before the counter and a lamp or three, furnished the room.<\/p>\n

Two thin young men, dressed in similarly casual gabardine slacks and collegiate shirts, worked quietly\u2014one behind the counter and the other coming in and out periodically with merchandise, sometimes quietly exchanging a few words. The man behind the counter acknowledged me as I entered, glancing briefly at my face, with a small but sincere smile and then politely leaving me to my private investigations. I felt he was being kind, implying a promise to allow me the privacy of an incognito visit. The hills around the towns north of Santa Barbara are laden with celebrity personalities.<\/p>\n

Shortly, I found two things of interest to me: one a large folio, the leaves of which were made of stiff cardboard on which had been printed, mainly with a dark mauve and green ink, with black lines, motives reminiscent of 1930 Vienna and each page was inset, in a random pattern with slots holding five inch music disks, printed in the same design. The other item was a finely made, old rosewood humidor\u2014the kind you would find on a desk or a table in the sitting room of a 19th<\/sup>\u00a0century parlor. Inside this box, I found some fresh cigars, a couple dozen maduras, wrapped in soft and exquisitely aromatic tobacco. They had no ring but lifting one to my nose, I recognized the Cuban pedigree. I considered buying one with guilt and desire, imagining a suitable rationalization and as I stood by the counter, holding the cigar in my hand, in this internal confliction, a man, dressed in a suit came in the door behind me and greeted the counter clerk, who returned his greeting with the familiarity of regular acquaintance. The suit he wore was obviously expensive, made of light and supple, black Italian wool\u2014no tie, and the collar of the white shirt beneath the stylish lapels was open at the throat. He looked at me and smiled before returning his attention to the young man, who still showed no interest in my activities.<\/p>\n

As I continued to sniff and mentally weigh the pros and cons, I was getting no closer to a decision, when the man in the suit, who now sat on one of the barstools, turned to me and said, \u201cwould you like to smoke it?\u201d I felt a little ashamed about it but I nodded, \u201cyes\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cRomeo,\u201d he said. I looked at it and whispered, \u201cand Juliet.\u201d He laughed, gently. \u201cGo ahead, light it up.\u201d Hesitating, I looked into the dark eyes of the counter clerk, who seemed like he was watching a familiar scene in a movie. \u201cWould you like to use a cutter?\u201d the clerk asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

The gentleman on the barstool, who I then noticed looked like Morgan Freeman, leaned toward me to pick up the rosewood box, which he held out for the counter clerk to take from his hands. \u201cDo you mind,\u201d he said to me, \u201cI\u2019ll pay for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s very kind of you but\u2026\u201d I started to protest this generosity from a stranger but there was something so familiar and friendly about his face and voice, I felt more ashamed about refusing him.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, really, that\u2019s ok,\u201d he said, \u201cdon\u2019t mention it. You can have the box. Enjoy!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShall I wrap it?\u201d The clerk asked him, not me.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d he said to the clerk and swiveling on the stool back to me, he said, \u201cIs there anything more? Really. Anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything,\u201d he said, with the confident, sweet smile and flashing eyes that reminded me so much of Morgan, and Gene Wilder, too, a little.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know who you are,\u201d he cut me off. \u201cNo introductions are necessary. Just tell me what you want.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh. Right. Of course. Thank you. For the cigar\u2014cigars.\u201d I felt stupid saying that. \u201cGod, I felt stupid saying that,\u201d I said, \u201cbut still, thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs my Scandinavian friends say, \u201cnot to worry, it was too little. But really, you can always have anything\u2014that I can give you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything? OK. How about a new president?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf the United States?\u201d He laughed. \u201cYou go right for it, don\u2019t you.\u201d Shaking his head, he looked down at his shiny black dressy loafers. I imagined him wiggling his toes. \u201cWell, I guess that\u2019s appropriate. But, why?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know, I\u2019m tired of all the bullshit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAren\u2019t we all. But isn\u2019t it the nature of the job? Does it matter who does it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt did. It used to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI understand,\u201d he said, sympathetically, \u201cwhat you want and why.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you can\u2019t give that to me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSort of\u2026but you\u2019ll have to clarify or I can\u2019t give you what you want.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m tired of apologies. Instead of taking care of things, all we get is apologies. Really.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought that\u2019s the purpose of having a president, to apologize. That\u2019s the job, isn\u2019t it? The fuss about Clinton was because he was unapologetic about his blowjob. He apologized for failing to deliver universal healthcare and that was completely acceptable. Nixon was made president after he apologized in tears for taking a house in Beverly Hills in return for political favors. I understand his apology for Watergate is considered epic. Among world leaders, George Bush was outstandingly stupid but his whining voice was constantly apologizing and he got away with murder and larceny on a scale never seen before. Clearly, apologetic is the most significant quality that distinguishes popular politicians in general but especially those who “fill” the office of president. Apology is to Washington, D.C. as horseshit is to the Aegean stables.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSince you put it that way, how about a house in the country?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNow, that\u2019s what I\u2019m talking about.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I was browsing the merchandise in a strange little shop\u2014the kind of place you find in small towns on California\u2019s central coast, in the hills where the local industry is limited to oil pumps discretely camouflaged in\u00a0cul de sac\u00a0little valleys, vineyards and tourists attracted to their companion tasting rooms. The little store occupied most of … Continue reading Conversations with God – III<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-893","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/893","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=893"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/893\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":895,"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/893\/revisions\/895"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=893"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=893"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michaelwinn.org\/tu-maltido-amor\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=893"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}