It's not about Indians

So I was sitting there on the couch in my Uncle's office reading. A book. The book must have been invisible, because another attorney in the office sat down and started talking to me. I will never understand this phenomenon. He must not like to read. People who don't like to read interrupt my reading and if you want me to be completely honest, when they begin running their mouths, usually saying something that is generally not one-quarter as interesting as the sentence I am trying to finish, I want to throw my book at them. There. I said it. Anyway, I am trying to read and Mr. Bankruptcy lawyer, who often reminds me that he is doing God's work, and, as he put it today, "would be a saint if I were Catholic or dead," begins to try and make up for what he said to me earlier about Indians. About an hour before, he was talking to me about something of little relevance to anything else, and he referred to the lot of them in a degrading manner. As he walked away, off to save another client from losing everything to the people they owe, he must have been interpreting the look on my face. It told him he probably should not have said what came out of his mouth before he had a chance to reason through it...that is, if he ever reasons through what comes out of his mouth at all. So when he sits down the second time and interrupts my reading (did I mention that yet?) he asks me if I am Indian. I said yes and the conversation continues with him saying various nice things about Indians, about how his last client was surprisingly attentive and eager for an Indian. He thinks this is painting him in a more positive light to me. Then he begins to tell me about this Indian friend that he used to have who was actually a Kentucky Colonel, like the Kentucky Fried Chicken one. I think Sanders was his name. That point is irrelevant to the rest of my story, but I thought it was interesting. Anyway, this Indian-colonial-friend of his was once involved in the Hollywood scene, and had many relations with women in his old age, and that he could believe only a fraction of the stories that his Indian-Colonel-friend told, the fraction probably being close to half. This friend of his was rather nice "for an Indian" and had some pretty Caucasian qualities about him. There were a few shits and damns mixed into this part of the story about his Indian-Colonel-friend, and when they entered the picture, I stopped listening and realized that I am an adult. This attorney feels comfortable enough in my presence to flippantly throw shit out there, without the gates that usually surround the language a respectable man says around a child.

His lips keep moving, the gray hairs of his beard following suit, but I am gone. "When did this happen?" I ponder. "When did I become a real adult?" "How long have I been like this and why didn't I notice before." I have friends who have children, who are married, who are fighting a war, who own homes and cars and boats. Of course they are adults. But for some reason, I feel immune to it, as if it's all one big joke that society and history and movies and our parents play on us, kind of like the reality of death to someone who is alive and not terminally ill. And then it makes me wonder about what the definition of adult is...Webster's says, "fully developed and mature," or "grown-up". I forgot to mention that the Indian-Colonel-friend actually had Mr. Bankruptcy attorney deemed Colonel by the governor of Kentucky...which would make him Colonel-Bankruptcy-attorney…again, irrelevant. So, in the Colonel's eyes I am an adult. In my parent's eyes, I am adult-like with a few shortcomings. But in mine, I don't know that I will ever be an adult...I will probably be eighty-three sitting in a rocking chair, listening to the oldies on whatever music playing device that has been developed by 2066 - by then maybe Jack Jonson will be considered oldies - and I will be wondering when I will reach adulthood.

When I think of grown-up, which was the second part of Webster's definition, I think un-fun, responsibility laden, no-time-to-sit-and-enjoy-a-cup-of-tea-or-the-smell-of-the-rain because there are too many things to get done...and if that's the case, I don't ever want to be a grown-up. Maybe that's why I work at Starbuck's making $3 an hour, despite my bachelor's degree, and not in an office. Maybe this post just affirms the suspicion I have been having that I need more therapy. It also may be that I live with my parents during this current season of my life, which makes me feel like a child most of the time.

It's funny. I am going to bed early tonight because my alarm will go off ate 3:45 tomorrow morning so that I can be there by 5 AM. If that doesn't make me feel like an adult, I don't know what will.