In Hollywood movies of the 90s the hero comes home, throws his (heroes could still be unquestionably male back then) keys on the counter, listens to the messages on the answering machine from an ex wife or young adult child or girlfriend he is quarrelling with, or an old buddy who is in town for a night or two...
and pours himself a stiff drink (always available) over ice (always available) into a cut crystal glass, or takes a beer from a bottomless fridge always overflowing with beers, pulls the ring tab, flops on the couch, meditatively sipping his alcohol, safe in his cave, any wounds he has acquired on the outside temporarily at rest. Master of all he surveys, he picks up a remote, pushes a button, the tv comes alive and magically, after a few seconds, there is a news item which pertains to our hero, he absorbs it, turns the tv off, has another sip, processing where he's been and where he is going to...
he is at home
soon we will cut to where he launches himself back out of the womb, or we will cut to the wickedness the world is preparing for him.
In the movie of my life I come home, get covered by licks from the dogs, rub muzzles with them and marvel at their love, go into the garden and aimlessly pluck a few weeds, scratch my heat rash, my wounds are invisible.
I open the fridge, cannot find anything of interest, cobble together a banana smoothie from overripe bananas on the table strewn with miscellaneous bits of paper, I push the papers into a pile to make a space, appeal to G-d to intervene, lie down on the bed and count to 100, (don't think I have ever lived anywhere where there was not a tree visible from my window)
when a little strength has returned I pry off my sandals, wash my hands, after all
I am at home
The phone rings, sometimes I ignore it, sometimes I answer the call.
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