Jim, the Painter, is perched on the front edge of my back porch. He is eating an orange and the sharp scent of the peel blends with the sharp glare of the morning sun.
“Looks like a better day for painting today.” I state the obvious after a week of gloom and drizzle.
“Yes,”he agrees. “There is going to be a lot of accomplishment here today.” And he pops the last orange segment into his mouth.
I don’t know Jim, the Painter, very well and I am keeping the doors locked while he sands the shutters in the back yard. He identifies himself as Jim, the Painter, when he phones to see if he needs to pick up paint. I only know his last name because I saw it on the deposit check my husband wrote. The hat Jim, the Painter, always wears is shabby and the narrow brim flops down. I would not recognize him without his hat. But today Jim, the Painter, predicts, will be a day of a lot of accomplishment. I take his words as a blessing for the day. This will be a good day.
So far this has borne out well, although the time between Jim, the Painter’s words and right now can be measured in minutes.
To start — I left my puffy coat at home on the rack, a rash move, I thought, but I checked the thermometer and it read 62 degrees, so took the dare.
At South Hill School, I slowed down to the prescribed 15 mph and, sure enough, tucked into an obscured driveway was a police car. I feigned interest in a daffodil display nearby and glimpsed a large, pale forearm resting on the ledge of the open window, reminding me of the plump veal sausages on display in European butcher shops. They are good sausages. I turned the corner and continued down the hill on Aurora Street.
The young woman in the dark green car who ran the stop sign at the top of Clinton Street may or may not recognize that she, too, is having a good day. I hit my brakes hard and came to a full stop to avoid slamming into her car as she dashed in front of me. She appeared distraught and possibly angry, but I do hope she sent out a little “thank you” to the world at large, if not to me in particular.
Once down on the flats, the day continued to outdo itself. I arrived on time for my weekly writing group and the parking place directly in front of Zee’s Writing Studio was empty. Plainly my car was destined to occupy it. The mid-point meter-feeding task will be much simpler now. I even have quarters.
At this moment I am comfortable in a largish, yellowish chair at Zee’s, with arms that are just the right height for my elbows — another good thing. And I am wondering what the next installment will be in this promising day of accomplishment.
