January 3: Yellow Rice and Fish, Unfiltered Me, Officially COVID-Positive

The boy and Santiago share a moment of mutual fantasy . . . 

"What do you have to eat?" the boy asked.

"A pot of yellow rice with fish. Do you want some?"

"No. I will eat at home. Do you want me to make the fire?"

"No. I will make it later on. Or I may eat the rice cold."

"May I take the cast net?"

"Of course."

There was no cast net and the boy remembered when they had sold it. But they went through this fiction every day. There was no pot of yellow rice and fish and the boy knew this too.

"Eighty-five is a lucky number," the old man said. "How would you like to see me bring one in that dressed out over a thousand pounds?"

"I'll get the cast net and go for sardines. Will you sit in the sun in the doorway?"

"Yes. I have yesterday's paper and I will read the baseball."

The boy did not know whether yesterday's paper was a fiction too. But the old man brought it out from under the bed.

"Perico gave it to me at the bodega," he explained.

"I'll be back when I have the sardines. I'll keep yours and mine together on ice and we can share them in the morning. When I come back you can tell me about the baseball."

"The Yankees cannot lose."

"But I fear the Indians of Cleveland."

"Have faith in the Yankees my son. Think of the great DiMaggio."

"I fear both the Tigers of Detroit and the Indians of Cleveland."

"Be careful or you will fear even the Reds of Cincinnati and the White Sox of Chicago."

"You study it and tell me when I come back."

"Do you think we should buy a terminal of the lottery with an eighty-five? Tomorrow is the eighty-fifth day."

"We can do that," the boy said. "But what about the eighty-seven of your great record?"

"It could not happen twice. Do you think you can find an eighty-five?"

"I can order one."

"One sheet. That's two dollars and a half. Who can we borrow that from?"

"That's easy. I can always borrow two dollars and a half."

"I think perhaps I can too. But I try not to borrow. First you borrow. Then you beg."

"Keep warm old man," the boy said. "Remember we are in September."

"The month when the great fish come," the old man said. "Anyone can be a fisherman in May."

"I go now for the sardines," the boy said.

The boy knows that Santiago isn't telling him the truth about the cast net or the pot of yellow rice and fish.  It is a fiction shared between them--one that allows the old man to maintain his dignity and the boy to demonstrate his respect for Santiago.  A narrative that defines their relationship.

I think everybody does this every day of their lives.  We tell ourselves lies in order to make it from alarm clock to sleeping pill.  Okay, maybe I'm talking about myself and extrapolating, but isn't that the conceit we all buy into when we read blog posts or like Facebook posts.  We try to convince ourselves and friends and "friends" and family and an army of followers that we are living our best lives.  

If you don't believe me, try an experiment.  First, post of picture of yourself when you first wake up in the morning, before your first cup of coffee.  Don't photoshop the picture, and don't add some hyper-aware caption intended to make people laugh.  Just the picture without explanation.

Then, post a second picture after you have had your coffee, brushed your teeth, taken your shower, done your hair.  Add some saying like "Ready to face the day" or "Time to conquer the world."  

Wait and see which post gets the most response--unfiltered you or filtered you.  My guess is you will get more likes/thumbs ups/hearts/comments for the caffeinated, coifed, and captioned you.  In fact, I'd be willing to lay money on it.  Because we all want to believe that we have perfect lives with perfect jobs and spouses and significant others and children.  And we want everyone else to believe the same things about us.

That's why a lot of people send out Christmas letters that read like a David Letterman Top Ten list of Reasons Why My Life is Better Than Yours.  By the time I'm done reading a letter like that, I feel as if my existence is an episode of The Brady Bunch where Mr. and Mrs. Brady run a meth house and Alice is in charge of a human trafficking ring.  

Longtime readers of Saint Marty know that I rarely sugarcoat my life.  I try to be honest about myself.  Brutally honest, most of the time.  Therefore, I often sound depressed, afraid, frustrated, unsure, isolated, and alone. #UnfilteredMe

On the other hand, I also have kids who love me; a wife who has seen me through some of the worst times of my life; friends who text me when I'm sick to see how I'm doing; a really cute puppy; lots of great books on my bookshelf; and a subscription to Netflix.  #LuckiestPersonOnThePlanet

So, I'm going to conclude this post with a description of my unfiltered day.  I coughed my lungs out all last night.  Watched a Netflix documentary on Joan Didion this morning that was fantastic.  Coughed my lungs out some more.  Got officially tested and declared officially COVID-positive.  Cleaned at church for a couple hours (nobody around, fully masked the entire time).  Watched the movie Tick, Tick . . . Boom with my wife.  I'm tired.  Really tired.  But I probably won't sleep that well tonight (see earlier comments about coughing my lungs out).  I really miss my daughter, who has been staying at her boyfriend's parents' house since COVID struck home.

That's it, folks.  Saint Marty, naked and afraid.  But not really naked, and only slightly afraid.  Mostly just exhausted.