pexels.com photo by yaroslava borz
by Guy Biederman
Living on a cocktail napkin limits travel, but there comes a time when you just want to swallow the anchor and float in a smaller pool, if you know what I mean. Occasionally I take short trips to the napkin’s edge and relax in a corner where it’s safer to stretch out, because life in the middle requires a vigilant eye for descending bottles, steaming cups, and glasses with ice. Once I stayed in a mint tin on silent retreat where the vibe was tight and safe, maybe not so great if you’re claustrophobic, or don’t like peppermint, but tin-living makes you feel tiny treasure-ish. Never lived on a cloth napkin, above my paygrade, who wants to live in a fold anyway? Never chilled in a pocketbook either, although once over spring break I tucked into a wallet, something of a fling with crisp ATM 20’s, credit cards, and condoms. But I dig napkin life, this square island all my own, protecting polished tabletops with their tangy hint of Pledge, giving back as they say, living the cliche, dodging the occasional, incoming— ahh SHIT…
Guy Biederman divides his time between a houseboat, an adobe casa caretaking cats, a cabin, and the road in between. He favors strong coffee, scotch on the docks, and the desert’s wabi sabi beauty. It’s all true, especially the fiction.
