Somebody Stop That Guy With The Walker

July 11, 2026

It’s 4:30 in the morning.

The heavy mist off the Pacific makes the sidewalks along Castillo Street in downtown Santa Barbara glisten like obsidian. Cathy is asleep back at the hotel. At least I hope she is. I probably woke her despite my best ninja efforts to deftly lift the tumblers in the door lock and slip silently into the hallway.

A middle-aged woman in gray sweatpants and a black hoody parks her wheeled walker in from of the Starbucks counter. The barrista calls her “Hon.” That, and the hour, suggest she’s a regular. 

Barry Gibb and the Bee Gees are belting out “How Deep Is Your Love” on the speakers, straining to be heard over the industrial and incessant hummmm of the refrigeration motor keeping the yogurt parfaits chilled. Barry gives up and passes the Muzac mic to either Uncle ACE playing Blood Orange or Blood Orange playing Uncle ACE. I can’t tell which from my nifty Shazam app until the album cover comes up and I scramble to turn my phone off. 

The album cover answers my question on the artist’s identity, but does nothing to ease my general feeling of unease this morning.

I steal glances over my laptop at the gal with the wheeled walker. “Nice wheels” I say. She looks miffed until I explain I’m shopping for a set.   She still looks miffed when, apparently betraying my ignorance, I question the need for handbrakes. The tension breaks when a predawn jogger comes in and unwittingly provides a common target for shared resentment.

I glance again at the wheeled walker and my thoughts drift back to Wednesday.

Cathy and I met with the brain surgeon and his team in Redwood City and my neurologist in Terra Linda. All are very reassuring, very knowledgeable, very thorough. I endured another 40 minutes in the sinking one man submarine they call an MRI (that was worse than I expected) and they each gave a NASA launch team thumbs-up-all-systems-GO for the first brain boring on July 23.

Unfortunately, the team confirmed my worst fear that, yes Rob, you will have to suck it up and not once, but three times, endure  dusk to dawn withdrawal hell. First, the night before my first surgery on July 23, the night before the second surgery on August 27, and the night before when Dr. Nandipati fires up and adjusts my gizmo in late September.

That’ s three more nights in withdrawal hell, two holes drilled in my head, and an eight-track planted in my chest before she can do the voodoo she doos and . . . god willing and the creek don’t rise . . .dial back my shakes.

 For three months I am not to drive, not climb stairs alone, and never engage in exercise which might break a sweat on my pretty bald head. This is particularly distressing as breaking a sweat on my stationary bike and Peloton is the only way I’ve found to mask late afternoon seismic tremors that make a straightjacket sound inviting.

And if that weren’t bad enough, the doc told us I’m not to wear the cool blue tweed Donegal cap, forest green felt Stetson Indiana Jones hat, or the red, black, blue and white cotton paisley doo rags I ordered from Amazon to sweep Cathy off her feet and protect what I suspect will be a scalp just itching to be burnt to a Cool Ranch Dorito crisp.

Life goes on.

The young woman at the counter orders a Vente Caramel Macchiato with five shots. I’m not sure if five shots is normal or excessive or if that’s five shots of espresso or five shots of fast acting sucrose.

Life goes on.

The coffee machine is signaling it’s about to blow with a klaxon that sounds like a submarine about to dive but the baristas do not seem concerned.

Life goes on.

The lady with the sporty walker finishes her drink, smiles and leaves. I sip the last of my iced tea.

Life goes on, doesn’t it?

All about us life goes on. 

Taking little notice, offering little solace, asking none in return . . .

Life goes on.