So I Ended Up with This Big Red Dot on My Nose

It's a long story.

Let's start at the beginning.

I didn't intend to go play Ringo (don't call it "Bingo") at the Golden Lantern on Thursday night. The only reason I went was because Keith had told me the night before that he'd be there since Liz was leaving the next day to go to New York for the weekend. So it was Keith's fault I was there. Or maybe it was Liz's fault for leaving Keith with nothing to do so that he'd end up choosing me for company and cause me to be at the Ringo (not Bingo) game where I got into trouble.

But then Dave had something to do with it, too, cause when he showed up just as the Ringo (nee Bingo) game was about to start, Bobby took his red-dot ink bottle (what you use to mark your Ringo [yeah, not that] sheet with) and made like he was going to mark up Dave's face with it. The problem with Dave is that he likes his face getting all marked up, so he told Bob where to put the red-dot ink bottle, and that's where Bobby put it. On Dave's forehead between his eyebrows. Thus a precedent was established.

Finally, Lance the bartender having finished getting dressed up as a nun and finally ready to start calling out the Ringo numbers, it was time to start the game. Bobby told me to fork over a buck for a Ringo sheet and play. I told him I'd rather not.

He said, "Get a sheet. I'll play it."

I said, "That's illegal."

"It's not illegal. Get a sheet."

"You tried this last week. They told you it was one for one."

"Don't keep pushing this. Get a sheet. If you know what's good for you, get a sheet."

Knowing what was good for me, I broke down and got a sheet. But I intended to play it for myself. I wasn't going to be a part of one of Bobby's illicit schemes. I moved away and sat between Dave and Keith, removed the lid from my red-dot ink bottle, and got set, ready, and on my mark.

"O-34!" And we were off.

The numbers seemed to be coming in a rush. I couldn't scan my sheet fast enough, but Keith was nearby to do it for me. I don't understand how he was able to spot the numbers so quickly. I'd be just starting to pass my eyes down the column when he would lean over and tell me I had two or none of the numbers that Lance had just called out. I guess it's something to do with the way children are taught in schools today. When I was getting my grade school education, we were being taught to savor what we were reading. Nowadays, kids are taught to get in, grab hold of the meaning, and get out. I guess it accomplishes the same thing, but I don't know - it's so - what? - fast.

Anyway, with Keith's help, I was moving fast. Faster than Bobby was, and he was getting a little pissed about the situation. He was already peeved that I had challenged him to begin with, now his anger was swelling, swelling large and hard. I pounced.

You have to understand the difference between Bobby and me. Bobby's an only child, I'm the youngest of three sons. Bobby was the apple of his parents' eyes. I was the most recent addition. Bobby could do no wrong. My parents always knew what I was up to. Nobody messed with Bobby. I had two older brothers who held me down and tickled me till I peed myself. There's this societal difference between my world and Bobby's.

So I picked at him. I teased him. I joshed and jostled him. I made him look the fool. I never intended for him to get all bent and righteous. I mean, really, I've given my last thirty-three years to making sure he's all right, and now he wants me to play (illegal) Ringo (that "Bingo" game) by his rules so he can win a tee-shirt? Two sizes too big? Advertising some liqueur? In a color not advantageous to his own complexion?

Nevertheless, he got all bent and righteous.

And I felt really bad.

I went to the restroom with my red-dot ink bottle, faced myself in the mirror, and branded the red mark of shame on the center-peak of my nose. I thought this would restore my place in Bobby's estimation.

I was a fool. He treated me with disdain.

I hold to certain standards, (not to mention certain deathly fears) and those standards (and fears) dictated that I should leave the bar, walk home alone, and deal with my situation as it was developing. So I did.

I did it for the next twelve hours, during which I fell asleep and rested for the duration until I awoke again around 5 AM - alone, downstairs in the apartment, still dressed, alone, Bobby nowhere in sight, alone, cell phone gone, alone and surrounded by the darkness of a building under reconstruction.

I did what any lonely castoff would do.

I left.

I pulled on a fresh shirt and walked outside, my nose aglow. I walked all the way to the gate on Decatur Street where I stepped out onto the street and turned to the right. I walked as far as Jackson Square, with my nose burning red for all to see, before I turned to the left to the river and to the Riverwalk where I finally began to made my way back home (with a big red nose) where Bobby was now awaiting my arrival in the living room with a big red bowl of Cheerios.

It pays to be the strong and silent one, even with a red-dotted nose.

It also helps to have whatever it takes to relish the foolishness of going out with a camera, too. You can see some of the photographs I took of my early morning walk here. Otherwise, just let your mind wander.

The point, of course, to my taking pictures of my walk was that if anything had happened to me, there would be a record of malfeasance.

That's a sad thing to bear in mind, but the fact is, it has become a part of daily life. Like Hansel and Gretel, we have to leave a trail to cover and retrace our tracks. The world has become a frightening place - if we allow ourselves to be afraid.

Otherwise, we can always walk out onto an early-morning darkened street with our cameras, looking for interesting pictures, and smile at everyone who crosses our paths and say, "Hey, Dawg," and go on down another street, take a left, another left, and just go on and on ... where nothing bad will ever happen to us.