first day of the rest of my life.

i’m “semi-retired” as of today. taught my last USC class of the semester… yesterday… and will be teaching no more fall semesters. just 3 more springs. half time at half pay.

“phased retirement”, amigos! time to collect social security, take the leap, and see how to create that “third act” i’ve been talking about for so long….

so… played tennis today. with earl, the pearl.

as every tuesday and friday. in LA’s south central hood. slauson and van ness. my favorite thing to do in the world. hit the yellow fuzzy tennis ball every which way… with 55-year-old, lanky and ebullient earl, the mayor of the van ness courts. originally from arkansas, the youngest of his many southern siblings, nobody knows exactly where earl lives… maybe with his mysterious girlfriend… or maybe…in the park itself… alongside of tommy gunn, local cart pusher number one, and houston, enforcer of the once, gang-infested park. but who cares… where? all i know is that earl drinks beer out of his water cup while he plays and has been doing it for the entire 10 years i’ve been playing with him.

finally graying around the temples, earl is my “coach” and tennis partner extraordinaire. i happily pay him 20 bucks an hour to teach me a backhand i never had, a wicked drop shot, and a heart-breaking topspin lob, to go along with the driving forehand i always had, as far back as i can remember. now they call me the “roger federer of van ness”. not 66 year old “honky”, who’s been coming twice a week for 10 years, often with da wife’s left overs from her catering gigs, making me one popular sonofabitch at the slauson and van ness courts. but hey, not only am i popular, but i’m great. at least in my own mind. i hit the shit out of the ball, and have earl shouting at the driveby… cars… every time i hit another winner past him.

we don’t keep score. we’re too smart for that. we play every point to the death, and i say, “good shot” every time he hits one past me. but i finally figured out how to overcome my lifelong fear of failure, which would make me just good enough to… lose… in every conceivable tennis combination. if i played a great player, i’d play great. that is, almost as great as my opponent, until… i’d inevitably lose the last point in the last set… every time… making me one of the most miserable tennis players on the planet. or, contrarily… if i’d play a really lousy opponent, i’d play just… lousi-er enough… to lose… the last point in the last set… making me remain… the most miserable tennis player on the planet. but now… with earl… with keeping no score, we play just for the joy… just for the art… of hitting the ball. just so… just past… one another… making me just about… the happiest tennis player on the planet. so much so… that no matter how much work, how much stress… how sick i feel… you’ll always find me out there every tuesday and friday… down at slauson and van ness… with the great and effusive, earl, the pearl.

so… i’m driving home from the courts today. i’m soaked with sweat. it’s 96 degrees out on the 2nd day of may, and i stop for gas… at the arco… on normandy and 54th. $4.23/gallon. outrageous, but still cheaper than downtown LA, echo park, and certainly the toney west side. of course the damn ATM machine doesn’t work. i have to go inside the AM/PM to give the dark-skinned proprietor my ATM card. “fill ‘er up,” i say. “number 5.” the dude takes my card and gives me a funny look. “go ahead, my man,” he smiles. he doesn’t look like a local. like i said, his skin is dark, but with his familiar sounding accent, i’m guessing he’s from north africa… some place like… egypt. i’ve been there and yep, i think he’s from cairo. could be, right?

one never knows, do one?

i fill ‘er up and go back for my card and receipt. i’m wearing some kind of worn out, badly-faded white t-shirt that says “PAC 10” on it. my main proprietor man smiles at me and tries to read the “P-A-C” aloud.

“what’s that?” he asks.

“uh… pacific athletic conference”, i improvise.

i think that’s what it means.

“USC”, i say. “i teach there.”

“what do you teach?” my gas man asks enthusiastically.

“theater,” i say, a bit surprised by his curiosity.

“really?” he says, duly impressed. “what do you teach in the theatuh?”

i’m even a little more taken aback, but i’m not going to tell the dude, “solo performance. he’s not gonna know what that means. so i say,

“i teach people how to tell their own stories and perform them onstage.”

“wow!” he beams.

“you’re an artist.”

“uh… yeah,” i say, “but i just started my ‘semi-retirement’ today. i’m not gonna work again ’til next january. and then only half time.”

“that’s great!” the gas man says. “you got your whole future in front of you. and it’s gonna be bright. i can just tell. you gonna write every day. sky’s the limit for you!”

“yeah,” i beam back.

how does this guy know me? how does he know that i’m gonna write every day?

i don’t know, to tell the truth. but it doesn’t matter, babies.

maybe sometimes, you just be walkin’ around with your future so absolutely readable all over your beautiful face, that even the gas man can see it. or maybe… this gas man… is some kind of shaman, or fortune teller. and he can just see right through my sweat-poring skin… that today is the 1st day of the rest of my life.

anyway, babies, i hope the gas man… be right……………………

“sky’s the limit, babies……………”

“sky’s the limit………………………………”

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