mondays with cory

There is that book, Tuesdays with Morrie--- in which Mitch Albom visits his old professor and they share weeks of Tuesday meetings discussing life, love, marriage, money, ambition, education--- everything. These sweet times of wisdom and laughter and reminiscing throughout the end of his professors life. As the stars or God or luck or nature- or all- would have it, as I was reading this very book, I happened to stumble upon my very own Morrie…except it was a Monday, and his name was Cory.
I was dawdling through Rockport with a friend when I happened into an art gallery right on the point. I was drawn in by this very soft painting- blue backdrop with a Van Gough style tree of yellow blossoms- standing by the door of the small gallery. I went in, and to my delight was this extraordinarily lively, short round man with a striking resemblance to Danny DeVito. Cory- the owner of the gallery, the painter himself, the charmer extraordinaire. He welcomed us warmly and kindly went over some paintings of his with me. But as I listened, I could not draw my gaze away from this small, simple, uncoloured painting of two swans. I was hooked.
I left with a regretful “sorry, not today…” excuse to follow the lead of the friend I was with who was clearly ready to get a move on. All I really wanted was to send this guy away on his own exploring and perch myself on the old futon next to Cory and continue our afternoon in light conversation.
For the next two weeks, I could not get these swans out of my head. So I found a free Monday from work, from school, from errands and drove my Jeep back to the coast to sit with Cory. He remembered me immediately, we poured our coffee, he cut me a deal on the swans and we sat, and there I remained for a solid three hours. We spoke of astrology, the Moonies, religion, education, tattoos, art, love, family, musical muses--- everything two strangers should happen upon in conversation that is the result of Kahlua in coffee and the sense of abandon that accompanies a seaside gallery owned by a man who looks like Danny DeVito. I came back a week later and had a shorter, but just as delightful, encounter.
Today, I went back again- and he seated me like any good gentleman host on his cozy futon then bustled across the way to get me some coffee and apple strudel. We sat in his shop surrounded by the rich fantasy of his paintings and the breeze from the ocean through his open window and talked art, broadcasted names for the hypothetical bar I may someday open, and listened to Damien Rice and Radiohead in turn as he asked me which “tender” and “ripper” music inspires my art, my thoughts.
Albom had Morrie, and I have Cory. I have his wisdom, his energetic sense of urgency in listening to my stories, his enthusiastic and heartfelt compliments and all the charm of an older gentleman who was born into art. I think I’m becoming fond of Mondays.

Mr. Swales' wears Pants

Tonight, Mr. Swales wore pants.
Since March, David Swales has come to the hotel I work at every other week on business. And I have delivered room service (generally a cup of soup or a chicken quesadilla) to this kind old man with his English accent and his wild array of boxer shorts. Each time I go to his room, room 815, I am greeted kindly at the door, asked in to set the tray on the desk, and he grabs the check as I walk between him and the ironing board which is always covered in the next day's dress shirt- half pressed. And each time I enter his room, I am intrigued by the fabric flapping about his hairy man- thighs. The first night (appropriately in mid-March) offered a nice set of bright green shorts with shamrocks dancing in a scattered display of Irish pride. The next visit was a dull blue with golf icons neatly on the sides. I have since seen Red Sox emblems and one particularly vibrant design of peace signs. Tonight he called down, inquired as to the "stodginess" of the chilli, opted for a steak melt with chicken instead of steak (chicken melt?) and greeted me at the door in a strikingly well-pressed, crisply creased set of trousers- appropriate for public use and in no way indicating the muscular make-up of his upper leg region.

I walked away quite simply astonished that he had opened his door wearing pants. And by time I had reached the employee elevator, I was shaking with giggles as I realized that I work in an environment where it is not uncommon to be greeted by clients who are, in fact, NOT wearing pants.