I woke up and had to pee. I sat up on the side of the bed and faced west and saw nothing but gray through the blinded windows sighting over the roof of the building just outside.
I slithered out of the blankets, taking care not to wake her as I rose. I gazed adoringly upon her sleeping corpus and placed a delicate kiss upon her forehead before making my way downstairs to do my thing.
When I returned she was awake, upright in bed, rubbing the spot on her cheek where a bit of drool had glued it to her pillow, and she was watching me as I approached. I laid down beside her, grabbed her thigh under the covers and asked ; "How are you, Darling?"
"My stomach doesn't feel so good" she replied, the words twisted and thick with both her accent and proximity to recent sleep, and they fell from her mouth like overripe figs from a low branch. I stared at her for a moment trying to decipher what she had just said, and then understood.
"Jesus!" I said "You need a waffle!"
Momentary reluctance, a bit of fidgeting under the sheets with her nightgown, and then she was over the tipping point and at last upright and standing, weaving back and forth slightly, risen like Lazarus from his terrible cave, and she made her way down the stairs calling back to me something about gathering her clothes and putting her hair on so we could go out.
Fifteen minutes later, we were driving down the street, headed south, looking for pancakes house.
It was early and grey and cold and a Sunday and every door and window was closed and denying us. But Fate must have been looking out for us this morning , for in no time at all an overweight pair of people dressed all in black left the dense fog to our left suddenly began to lumber across the street directly in front of our car like a Sasquatch sighting, BUT - CARRYING STYROFOAM TO-GO CONTAINERS!
"Fuck." I announced, my voice flat in disbelief "Look at that."
The pair took their time crossing the street in front of us, and we waited, watching silently, licking our chops like some wild cats watching gazelle.
After they passed Eve asked sadly "What do you think they had in those boxes?", her lower lip quivering with want.
"I'm not sure" I replied, grinding gears as I frantically searched for reverse with bad shift bushings, "It looked like breakfast though."
I finally found my gear and peeled out a short distance as those people jiggled, ever smaller, shrinking in parallax across an empty parking lot. I then stabbed the gear lever into first and dropped the clutch and chased after them, frantically lowering my window at the same time. The two people hopped backwards away from our approach, their to-go containers swinging heavy and pendulously from a white plastic bag wrapped around the thick wrist of the man. As my window dropped out of the frame entirely, where once was glass was now these surprised and curious faces, their bodies bent slightly forward so as to look inside our car, at us, to judge if we were friend or foe.
After I waited for just a beat of silence - to maintain a certain degree of drama - I gave them my biggest smile followed with "HIYA!. Whatchoo got in those boxes, if you don't mind me asking?"
Eve, now unable to control herself, leaned across my lap so as to be able to look up through the portal at the round faces presented there, and in doing so her wig slid off to the left several degrees. Shoving her hairpiece back with one hand impatiently, she began to demand " Ya'll got some WAFFLES in them bags? Speak up now! Where'd you get them waffles at?" before I cut her off.
"Get back woman!" I ordered "Mind your hair! You'll frighten these good people." I tried to shove her away with my free hand, but Eve was too strong, her will too strong, and she remained there sideways in my lap, flapping her eyelashes suggestively in some lewd act of silent pleading.
I looked back up at the two fidgeting people standing before me and made an apologetic face, and said "I'm sorry. My friend here does not feel well. Would you happen to know where a person - correction - a couple of CIVILIZED people - could purchase a waffle in this fine town?"
"Yeah!" Eve added her two cents, and then actually winked at them.
Well., I've got to hand it to her, the wink must have done the trick, for the man visibly relaxed and began to talk, scratching his goatee with the giant wrist from which the food bags were suspended.
"OH." He began "You want waffles? These aren't waffles here," he chuckled, shaking his huge head "we got some Thai food. We're on a diet. We don't eat waffles no more. Not supposed to anyway.." he said, and gave the woman standing next to him a look. "Well... they got some good waffles up at the Biscuit Palace. It's just a few blocks away. You go up two streets there and turn right..."
The directions were interrupted by a sudden monstrous outburst of laughter from Eve, who had adjusted the rearview at her own face and had found something amusing there. The man stopped talking and stared, not understanding, mouthbreathing.
"Carry on..." I reminded him
Monday, November 21, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Liberation
For as long as he could remember all these thoughts were going through his head, faster than he could possibly recognize them. The glimpses he managed to see in focus for brief spells were radiant, some shooting sparks, others black and heavy. He thought of these ideas and thoughts as colors, shapes, and the older he became the more there were, pushing each other around, bumping into each other, some joining into one, others splitting into two or more.
Gradually, he began to notice that all these ideas in his head were spinning more or less in the same direction like a color wheel, some faster than others, some larger or more colorful, but all going in the same circuit! He thought he may have begun to hear a faint buzzing at this time from inside his ears, which he could tune out easily enough when he had to go out in the world and mingle, but he could tap into it at any time. He would sit on his bed with his eyes closed and watch the images swirl and listen to the hum they made. These were truths. These were the secrets that everyone knew about, but no one would mention out loud. He had a firm grasp on these ideas. He felt that he was closer to a becoming by staying in tune with these particular vibrations. He was, in fact, right.
By choice, and then habit, he spent less and less time out there, and more time inside his private space. His thoughts became more powerful. He could bend spoons, and levitation became easy for him. He began to be noticed when he left his building. Police cars followed him. He drew too much attention out there, and he knew they knew he knew. He would be detained while going for a walk. He began to recognize officers and know them by name, and once he learned that they could not tell the truth, he stopped speaking to them or trying to provide answers. People were stupid, he thought, and those that could recognize the truth would speak that language and make themselves recognized for it.
The hum was recognized as many many voices, whispering the ideas to him. The spinning became faster, and the colors and sparks and shapes all began to blend into one big mass, he could watch it as clearly as if it was in a big glass jar in front of him. It was like a nuclear reaction, or what he imagined the universe looked like before the Big Bang, the pitch of the voices rising higher and higher, slowly over months, he could not turn them off anymore, trips to the store impossible, eye contact too frightening to attempt, he could only stay inside and press the heels of his hands to his closed eyes and try to understand what he was supposed to do with all these secrets.
Finally, there was a flash as the matter crossed some sort of event horizon and blinded him momentarily. Then, he was blinded by the silence that followed. He removed his hands from his eyes. He listened intently. There was only one voice now, clear and high. There was only one thought. He was a machine with a single purpose. He was set free. He was going to go do what he was meant to do. He was going to go scratch his mark. He was going to go make a difference.
Gradually, he began to notice that all these ideas in his head were spinning more or less in the same direction like a color wheel, some faster than others, some larger or more colorful, but all going in the same circuit! He thought he may have begun to hear a faint buzzing at this time from inside his ears, which he could tune out easily enough when he had to go out in the world and mingle, but he could tap into it at any time. He would sit on his bed with his eyes closed and watch the images swirl and listen to the hum they made. These were truths. These were the secrets that everyone knew about, but no one would mention out loud. He had a firm grasp on these ideas. He felt that he was closer to a becoming by staying in tune with these particular vibrations. He was, in fact, right.
By choice, and then habit, he spent less and less time out there, and more time inside his private space. His thoughts became more powerful. He could bend spoons, and levitation became easy for him. He began to be noticed when he left his building. Police cars followed him. He drew too much attention out there, and he knew they knew he knew. He would be detained while going for a walk. He began to recognize officers and know them by name, and once he learned that they could not tell the truth, he stopped speaking to them or trying to provide answers. People were stupid, he thought, and those that could recognize the truth would speak that language and make themselves recognized for it.
The hum was recognized as many many voices, whispering the ideas to him. The spinning became faster, and the colors and sparks and shapes all began to blend into one big mass, he could watch it as clearly as if it was in a big glass jar in front of him. It was like a nuclear reaction, or what he imagined the universe looked like before the Big Bang, the pitch of the voices rising higher and higher, slowly over months, he could not turn them off anymore, trips to the store impossible, eye contact too frightening to attempt, he could only stay inside and press the heels of his hands to his closed eyes and try to understand what he was supposed to do with all these secrets.
Finally, there was a flash as the matter crossed some sort of event horizon and blinded him momentarily. Then, he was blinded by the silence that followed. He removed his hands from his eyes. He listened intently. There was only one voice now, clear and high. There was only one thought. He was a machine with a single purpose. He was set free. He was going to go do what he was meant to do. He was going to go scratch his mark. He was going to go make a difference.
Mister Nice
Isaac Marcus Nice was born 45 years ago into a well-to-do family which lived on top of the hill in the big avocado green house. He was the youngest of three children and was the happiest and most trouble of the bunch.
I.M. Nice was always drawn to the darker, more sinister aspects of life. His own childhood provided very little in the way of dark experience, his was a privileged upbringing, without any of the usual complaints of absent or drunk parents, being ignored, or drug abuse - either participating in or being audience to.
He had the attitude of a small, vicious dog. He was loyal and protective, but could turn suddenly and bite the mailman. And like a small dog he also could not be trusted to be left alone in a car, or other enclosed area containing delicate or expensive items as he had a tendency to destroy these things out of curiosity or boredom. I.M. Nice required constant monitoring.
I.M. Nice was always drawn to the darker, more sinister aspects of life. His own childhood provided very little in the way of dark experience, his was a privileged upbringing, without any of the usual complaints of absent or drunk parents, being ignored, or drug abuse - either participating in or being audience to.
He had the attitude of a small, vicious dog. He was loyal and protective, but could turn suddenly and bite the mailman. And like a small dog he also could not be trusted to be left alone in a car, or other enclosed area containing delicate or expensive items as he had a tendency to destroy these things out of curiosity or boredom. I.M. Nice required constant monitoring.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
I do not want your son to be found dead in a bathtub.
You will be volunteering at the doggie-rescue place when you receive the phone call. You will feel your face go numb as you ask "WHAT?" into the phone for the second time.
You will drop the leash you were holding, and the dog you were walking, the crazy big one, will not run away, because animals can sense things.
You will say to yourself: 'I thought everything was better now.' Your mind will go back to the last time you saw him, what you talked and laughed about. You will remember that day and recall that he seemed happy.
You begin to drive home, and your hands shake. You turn the radio on, and then off, and then back on, but you can not find a station you want to listen to. You feel like you are forgetting something. You reach across to the passenger seat and feel around. You left your purse back behind the counter of the doggie-place. You pull the car over and adjust the rearview mirror to look at yourself.
You will drop the leash you were holding, and the dog you were walking, the crazy big one, will not run away, because animals can sense things.
You will say to yourself: 'I thought everything was better now.' Your mind will go back to the last time you saw him, what you talked and laughed about. You will remember that day and recall that he seemed happy.
You begin to drive home, and your hands shake. You turn the radio on, and then off, and then back on, but you can not find a station you want to listen to. You feel like you are forgetting something. You reach across to the passenger seat and feel around. You left your purse back behind the counter of the doggie-place. You pull the car over and adjust the rearview mirror to look at yourself.
2011: How it played out
Highlight reel:
December 2010: Recovering from extreme melodramatic downward spiral/ birthday/ perceived loss culminating in bridge-incident and subsequent scars. Eminem album. Die Antwoord. The Land Rover 109s. Confusion. Faulkner/ Portis.
December 22nd, 2010 : HAPPY NEW YEAR! Celebrated, alone, early. The following week spent with a cat, otherwise alone, in my front office under blankets, watching movies. This marked the beginning of a stretch of clean living/sobriety.
December 30th(?) - Airport collection. Surprised at positive attitude of collectee. Some catching up ensued. Mutual mentionings of new era beginning.
January 4th(?) - Saw 'True Grit' at the local movie theater. Was terrific. The conversation that followed this viewing was even better. Feelings revealed, explanations provided, reciprocity admitted, I felt free to move on, finally. I was told I did not need to move on. This night marked the ushering in of a new way of thinking around here, notable features being I was not being unrealistic or deluded. I become convinced 2011 is, INDEED, going to be amazing.
The following weeks: Characterized by a marked increase in writing, regular gym visits, no drinking, an extreme feeling of optimism (married to a new anxiety that this may all sour easily - it feels almost too good to be true), lots of time spent walking, talking, eating, making plans.
Valentine's Day: It mattered. Sort of. Earrings. Removal of existing earrings.
More weeks pass. 944 job. Citroen wagon job(s). Reappearance of friend from distant past, who becomes central player in this world/story. Feeling good, feeling lucky. Feeling exposed, feeling a little crazy.
December 2010: Recovering from extreme melodramatic downward spiral/ birthday/ perceived loss culminating in bridge-incident and subsequent scars. Eminem album. Die Antwoord. The Land Rover 109s. Confusion. Faulkner/ Portis.
December 22nd, 2010 : HAPPY NEW YEAR! Celebrated, alone, early. The following week spent with a cat, otherwise alone, in my front office under blankets, watching movies. This marked the beginning of a stretch of clean living/sobriety.
December 30th(?) - Airport collection. Surprised at positive attitude of collectee. Some catching up ensued. Mutual mentionings of new era beginning.
January 4th(?) - Saw 'True Grit' at the local movie theater. Was terrific. The conversation that followed this viewing was even better. Feelings revealed, explanations provided, reciprocity admitted, I felt free to move on, finally. I was told I did not need to move on. This night marked the ushering in of a new way of thinking around here, notable features being I was not being unrealistic or deluded. I become convinced 2011 is, INDEED, going to be amazing.
The following weeks: Characterized by a marked increase in writing, regular gym visits, no drinking, an extreme feeling of optimism (married to a new anxiety that this may all sour easily - it feels almost too good to be true), lots of time spent walking, talking, eating, making plans.
Valentine's Day: It mattered. Sort of. Earrings. Removal of existing earrings.
More weeks pass. 944 job. Citroen wagon job(s). Reappearance of friend from distant past, who becomes central player in this world/story. Feeling good, feeling lucky. Feeling exposed, feeling a little crazy.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Recovery?
26 steps from here to there.
With my arm wrapped in a plaster cast I make the sign; "FOR RENT". It is awkward trying to hold up the sign and nail it to a post outside by the street. The wind is blowing, and the branches above me creak and groan as they sway, a few drops of trapped water escape the needles and fall on me. It is getting cold. Summer is over.
A second, equally possible life I saw reflected back at me from the long-gone panes of her eyes. Flat empty space now, as if the glass had been knocked out of the frames, like they were from the house I drag myself up the stairs and back into.
33 breaths from now until forever. Measured distance, You know what you gotta' do, Cowboy.
With my arm wrapped in a plaster cast I make the sign; "FOR RENT". It is awkward trying to hold up the sign and nail it to a post outside by the street. The wind is blowing, and the branches above me creak and groan as they sway, a few drops of trapped water escape the needles and fall on me. It is getting cold. Summer is over.
A second, equally possible life I saw reflected back at me from the long-gone panes of her eyes. Flat empty space now, as if the glass had been knocked out of the frames, like they were from the house I drag myself up the stairs and back into.
33 breaths from now until forever. Measured distance, You know what you gotta' do, Cowboy.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Something bad on the way?
I woke up not long ago from a collection of bad dreams, and now am feeling flat and wasted, a little hopeless.
The dreams were not the scary-bad type; no monsters or intruders or doors slamming shut in my face or buildings shaking or collapsing. They were the worst kind of bad dreams for me, the realistic kind, the losing-someone kind, the someone-is-leaving-me kind, but finding out by feelings, suspicions, clues and hints.
In my dream I was going to pick her up, take her to the airport, I was thinking about going with her to see her parents, she knew I was coming to pick her up, yet when I got to her house and knocked on the door and she answered in her towel, fresh out of the shower, she looked surprised and was not nice to me. Someone else was there. It just gets worse, and even now typing this, I am getting upset and sad. I feel like I could cry. FUCK. Speaking of crying, I just remembered a moment in this very same dream in which I had to 'decommission' my father for some reason - he was broken? - and I had to unscrew this bolt that went through the base of his neck, holding his head on. The bolt was rusty and I couldn't get it to turn, and he was laying there telling me it was okay, and he reached up and helped and got the nut to turn off the bolt, and they were getting bloody as I pulled the bolt out, but then you see, I had to jerk his head up and twist it to turn him off, and he is big and well built so it was not easy. I think it was hurting him as I tried to pull his head, but I was trying to be gentle, finally he said 'You got it. Now just twist' and I did, and he was gone and I sort of collapsed crying for a while and she was in this room too, collecting her shit for her flight, and she felt bad for me, but was busy packing her bag and not paying much attention to it all. It was not a good dream.
Now I am awake and drinking coffee and feeling drained still although just woken up, and it is grey outside which is fine - sort of exciting really, it feels like Fall all of a sudden and I love Fall, but the Summer is gone? I have not done anything yet this summer - Did we have a Summer yet? One more year gone by, one more year in which I Was the youngest I would ever be, and it was wasted. Tinkering with cars and getting by, but no real progress in any of the things that matter.
For some reason I have become obsessed with 9/11, I am surprised it has been ten years already, ten years and the world is a different place. With that perspective of time, looking back on that day seems so much more tragic and sad and unbelievable than it did on the day it happened. The news and magazines are full of stories now about it, the ten-year-anniversary a big deal, the opening of the memorial on Ground Zero, enough time has passed that the stories can give all the tragic details of victim's lives and surviving families' loss and not feel opportunistic or predatory, enough time has passed and it is not uncouth for magazines to publish these stories now, and when I read them, I start crying. I find myself crying because of all the people who died, and the fireman and policeman who went into the buildings as people were trying to come out, and I cry because this event brought people together, and it illustrates a beauty in humanity that all these people in New York (and elsewhere) needed to go stand outside with each other and be with each other, and maybe talk, maybe cry, maybe be pissed, but they needed to see each other and be near each other to get through this thing, and to me that is evidence of something good. I also cry because I realize now, only much later, how much was lost, and how much else is gone since the towers went down, and I am not just talking lives here, I am talking a Way of Life, which was suddenly changed. Life didn't seem so innocent at the time, but looking back, pre 9/11 was a different, more innocent time. I think it is gone, forever.
Or is this just my own personal nostalgia for younger years? A time pre-cell phone/ pre-internet?
The dreams were not the scary-bad type; no monsters or intruders or doors slamming shut in my face or buildings shaking or collapsing. They were the worst kind of bad dreams for me, the realistic kind, the losing-someone kind, the someone-is-leaving-me kind, but finding out by feelings, suspicions, clues and hints.
In my dream I was going to pick her up, take her to the airport, I was thinking about going with her to see her parents, she knew I was coming to pick her up, yet when I got to her house and knocked on the door and she answered in her towel, fresh out of the shower, she looked surprised and was not nice to me. Someone else was there. It just gets worse, and even now typing this, I am getting upset and sad. I feel like I could cry. FUCK. Speaking of crying, I just remembered a moment in this very same dream in which I had to 'decommission' my father for some reason - he was broken? - and I had to unscrew this bolt that went through the base of his neck, holding his head on. The bolt was rusty and I couldn't get it to turn, and he was laying there telling me it was okay, and he reached up and helped and got the nut to turn off the bolt, and they were getting bloody as I pulled the bolt out, but then you see, I had to jerk his head up and twist it to turn him off, and he is big and well built so it was not easy. I think it was hurting him as I tried to pull his head, but I was trying to be gentle, finally he said 'You got it. Now just twist' and I did, and he was gone and I sort of collapsed crying for a while and she was in this room too, collecting her shit for her flight, and she felt bad for me, but was busy packing her bag and not paying much attention to it all. It was not a good dream.
Now I am awake and drinking coffee and feeling drained still although just woken up, and it is grey outside which is fine - sort of exciting really, it feels like Fall all of a sudden and I love Fall, but the Summer is gone? I have not done anything yet this summer - Did we have a Summer yet? One more year gone by, one more year in which I Was the youngest I would ever be, and it was wasted. Tinkering with cars and getting by, but no real progress in any of the things that matter.
For some reason I have become obsessed with 9/11, I am surprised it has been ten years already, ten years and the world is a different place. With that perspective of time, looking back on that day seems so much more tragic and sad and unbelievable than it did on the day it happened. The news and magazines are full of stories now about it, the ten-year-anniversary a big deal, the opening of the memorial on Ground Zero, enough time has passed that the stories can give all the tragic details of victim's lives and surviving families' loss and not feel opportunistic or predatory, enough time has passed and it is not uncouth for magazines to publish these stories now, and when I read them, I start crying. I find myself crying because of all the people who died, and the fireman and policeman who went into the buildings as people were trying to come out, and I cry because this event brought people together, and it illustrates a beauty in humanity that all these people in New York (and elsewhere) needed to go stand outside with each other and be with each other, and maybe talk, maybe cry, maybe be pissed, but they needed to see each other and be near each other to get through this thing, and to me that is evidence of something good. I also cry because I realize now, only much later, how much was lost, and how much else is gone since the towers went down, and I am not just talking lives here, I am talking a Way of Life, which was suddenly changed. Life didn't seem so innocent at the time, but looking back, pre 9/11 was a different, more innocent time. I think it is gone, forever.
Or is this just my own personal nostalgia for younger years? A time pre-cell phone/ pre-internet?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
It has started/You may have already won!
One month and you will not be able to recognize all of this.
Wallpaper curling down from the ceiling, moist and rotten, the pattern mush. Once, hopeful voices filled this room, tools swinging from hand and belt.
The lemonade waiting nearby in a tall glass pitcher, sweat beading up along it's flanks on this summer day, making it hard to hold, making the handle more useful than usual.
Happy voices mingling with laughs and playful chiding. Up goes the wallpaper. Mother's choice.
See the bathtub. See the chain leading down to the rubber stopper. See the big brown stain along the porcelain under the faucet. Roll up your sleeves. Hold your breath. Set your jaw in it's place of determination. Go to work.
Smells surround you, mildew and mold. Burning chemical sour. But underneath this, something else. A ghost of her smell, something hidden in the porous surfaces that is reluctant to give up and go away. Repetition leads to comfort. Comfort leads to inertia, momentum. Resistance. One-two, one-two.
Bring your can. Everything you remove will leave something behind, as everything else that was left behind before you got here. You are better off leaving something here on purpose. You think you understand this distinction, but you do not. This is the riddle you are not even aware of yet. Bring your can. Fill it. When do you know you are finished? Will you have to be told, or do you know instinctively?
One month after another, but this one a little different than the others. Hands become claws.
Wallpaper curling down from the ceiling, moist and rotten, the pattern mush. Once, hopeful voices filled this room, tools swinging from hand and belt.
The lemonade waiting nearby in a tall glass pitcher, sweat beading up along it's flanks on this summer day, making it hard to hold, making the handle more useful than usual.
Happy voices mingling with laughs and playful chiding. Up goes the wallpaper. Mother's choice.
See the bathtub. See the chain leading down to the rubber stopper. See the big brown stain along the porcelain under the faucet. Roll up your sleeves. Hold your breath. Set your jaw in it's place of determination. Go to work.
Smells surround you, mildew and mold. Burning chemical sour. But underneath this, something else. A ghost of her smell, something hidden in the porous surfaces that is reluctant to give up and go away. Repetition leads to comfort. Comfort leads to inertia, momentum. Resistance. One-two, one-two.
Bring your can. Everything you remove will leave something behind, as everything else that was left behind before you got here. You are better off leaving something here on purpose. You think you understand this distinction, but you do not. This is the riddle you are not even aware of yet. Bring your can. Fill it. When do you know you are finished? Will you have to be told, or do you know instinctively?
One month after another, but this one a little different than the others. Hands become claws.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
July 4th
I knew I was asking for trouble walking barefoot across the yard like that. If the broken glass and sharp little beer car pull-tabs didn't get me, I knew there were parasitical larvae in some suspended state of development just waiting to find a way into a good healthy digestive tract like mine, even if it meant exploiting a weak spot in the soles of my feet in order to get in. I am ashamed to admit it, but there were many such chinks in my armor. The summer had just begun, and I was not in the practice of walking about with no shoes or socks on, like some ocher primitive. I am a proud member of MENSA. I am better than that.
So, where were my shoes? If I was so smart I should know the answer to this fairly simple question.
So, where were my shoes? If I was so smart I should know the answer to this fairly simple question.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Get out of my dreams... Get into my van.
"And so he tells me if it gets any bigger, he's going to have to lance it. Stick it with a pin so it can drain. I know, I TOTALLY would feel bad about that too, so I'm just going to wait one more day I guess, but now it is starting to smell bad..."
This is the lady behind me in line. She is talking on her cell phone, and she is not trying to be quiet. I try to tune her conversation out, I read the headline of one of those magazines in the rack there. A Kardashian doing something-or-other. A Kardashian in a bikini. Someone cheated on this Kardashian. This Kardashian is not going to waste any time getting even with her man. I wonder what this Kardashian is doing on Friday? The woman behind me in line is impossible to ignore, and is ruining my Kardashian fantasy.
"So I just says to him, 'This sort of thing wouldn't happen to you if you didn't eat all that Taco Bell all the time!' Right? I mean, it don't matter how cheap they make those things, they ain't healthy!"
I turn slowly to my left and examine her out of the corner of my eye. Short. Bad skin. Not a thin woman, not a thin woman at all, if you know what I mean. Sweat pants and a tank-top, and she was not going to the gym, I can assure you. She is carrying a two-pound block of this grocery chain's proprietary recipe of mild cheddar, one large tomato, a half-gallon of ketchup and a bag of hot dog buns. Not exactly the person I would trust to advocate a healthy diet. I'm just saying.
She catches me checking her out. Eye contact. I try to smile. She senses it is not genuine, or does not admire my appearance either, because she makes a face and then turns away from me.
"Yeah? So, ANYWAY! Like I said before, I'm at the store. Uh huh. The one on Lombard. Right, THAT one. Remind me later to tell you about the creep I saw today.."
I turn on her again, less covertly this time, to see if she is talking about me. She glances up at me, smiles, and then looks away. It was not a nice smile, I could recognize that. I feel awkward and begin to fidget. The line has not moved in the last four minutes because some other woman in her fifties has been arguing with the cashier about how the eggs were advertised as five cents less than they rang up as. After a long explanation about her Club Card number (which she did not have), there was further discussion about her six lottery scratch-its. I did not follow, but was annoyed anyway. I had become the meat in a checkout-line-abomination-sandwich. I had to pause for a moment and ask myself though - Am I the bad guy here?
Somehow, mercifully, the woman in front of me was finally soothed and dispatched from the store. I was up. Efficiently entering my Club Card # while being rung up and politely chit-chatting with the cashier without engaging in outright conversation, I was finished in seconds flat. This isn't difficult, people! I collected my bag and made my way out, but I was still troubled by the conversation of the young lady behind me, the one with all that ketchup. I walked slow. I thought some more. I could not allow this aggression to stand. I made my way outside, and installed myself just to the left of the automatic doors. I leaned casually up against the brick wall there, one knee cocked up, striking a pose. I waited. I did not have to wait long.
This is the lady behind me in line. She is talking on her cell phone, and she is not trying to be quiet. I try to tune her conversation out, I read the headline of one of those magazines in the rack there. A Kardashian doing something-or-other. A Kardashian in a bikini. Someone cheated on this Kardashian. This Kardashian is not going to waste any time getting even with her man. I wonder what this Kardashian is doing on Friday? The woman behind me in line is impossible to ignore, and is ruining my Kardashian fantasy.
"So I just says to him, 'This sort of thing wouldn't happen to you if you didn't eat all that Taco Bell all the time!' Right? I mean, it don't matter how cheap they make those things, they ain't healthy!"
I turn slowly to my left and examine her out of the corner of my eye. Short. Bad skin. Not a thin woman, not a thin woman at all, if you know what I mean. Sweat pants and a tank-top, and she was not going to the gym, I can assure you. She is carrying a two-pound block of this grocery chain's proprietary recipe of mild cheddar, one large tomato, a half-gallon of ketchup and a bag of hot dog buns. Not exactly the person I would trust to advocate a healthy diet. I'm just saying.
She catches me checking her out. Eye contact. I try to smile. She senses it is not genuine, or does not admire my appearance either, because she makes a face and then turns away from me.
"Yeah? So, ANYWAY! Like I said before, I'm at the store. Uh huh. The one on Lombard. Right, THAT one. Remind me later to tell you about the creep I saw today.."
I turn on her again, less covertly this time, to see if she is talking about me. She glances up at me, smiles, and then looks away. It was not a nice smile, I could recognize that. I feel awkward and begin to fidget. The line has not moved in the last four minutes because some other woman in her fifties has been arguing with the cashier about how the eggs were advertised as five cents less than they rang up as. After a long explanation about her Club Card number (which she did not have), there was further discussion about her six lottery scratch-its. I did not follow, but was annoyed anyway. I had become the meat in a checkout-line-abomination-sandwich. I had to pause for a moment and ask myself though - Am I the bad guy here?
Somehow, mercifully, the woman in front of me was finally soothed and dispatched from the store. I was up. Efficiently entering my Club Card # while being rung up and politely chit-chatting with the cashier without engaging in outright conversation, I was finished in seconds flat. This isn't difficult, people! I collected my bag and made my way out, but I was still troubled by the conversation of the young lady behind me, the one with all that ketchup. I walked slow. I thought some more. I could not allow this aggression to stand. I made my way outside, and installed myself just to the left of the automatic doors. I leaned casually up against the brick wall there, one knee cocked up, striking a pose. I waited. I did not have to wait long.
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