Tesla and the grocery market

   
   "Tesla and the grocery market"
  
   Had to venture further than 2 miles away from my suburban habitat today, a nervous wreck--in a way; specifically, what if I have to urinate, what if there is some Kojack with a Kodak in the bushes armed with a radar gun, what if some maniac opens fire?  OCD, in medical terms.  They say Tesla had it too.  Wiped his silverware off a certain number of times, only drank distilled water, ordered from the same place, his groceries, was reclusive, yet hung out with Mark Twain here and there.
   Into the market, sanitizing my hands, and have too many groceries to go through automatic checkout.  They touch my groceries, and I get a little nervous, viewing the microcosmic kingdom in the theater of my mind; next, I gently allow the older and beautiful man to push out my stuff.  He tells me there's a car show.  Talks about his life.  Seemed lonely.  I shook his hand, prayed for nobody to hurt him when I exited, sanitizing my hand, and my dog jumping around in the car.
   Everybody has gifts.  Everyone has beauty.  In a way.  Unless you inflict control over someone--that's what gives people an asymmetrical vibe.  It's a Free Country, they used to say.  
   I see people in my family.  A beautiful blonde boy, and he doesn't even know it.  My step-dad, and while all of his sons love him, I actually like him, so does another.  Not out to impress or sway with bologna.  They said I was allergic to people.  A nocturnal job for years; next, home and reading everything I could get my hands on.  That guy is arrogant others say.  No, I just like the simple things, as Plotinus may argue.  Maybe there was a time when I craved.  Had ambition.  Now, get in, get out, lock the doors, and wish I could play cards with Grandma all night and drink coffee. 
   Men followed my mother, locked her in cars, exposed themselves to her--it happened her entire life, and she never called a cop.  She never laid down any ground rules when I returned home over a decade ago, broken, infused for years, and knowing that everyone was instructing her, as if they were her Daddy, on how to live her life.  Like I said--everyday she would tell me, because I always confessed my sins to her; as a result, she would tell me:  "They said this, or they said that."  She told me every word.
   Haven't been to the bar for my two beers in months.  There's a cool guy that hangs up there with the face of an angel.  He knows sports and how to survive.  Maybe it is all pack related.  I asked my shrink once:  "Is it okay for me to have friends?"  He said:  "Of course.  Just make sure you find people like yourself."