At the library, a man is speaking to the librarian in a loud, but calm voice.
"I am just telling you that if I find any overdue fines on my account, I will sue you and the library and the city."
I wonder how many overdue fines he has that would justify the legal fees for a massive lawsuit. I also wonder if it is worse to be a city librarian or a city bus driver. I envision this man speaking in his loud, even tones to the bus driver, too. I check out my stack of graphic novels and dark Australian rock and roll and try not to stare. I can't afford a lawsuit right now.
Well dressed people walk down the street and shout to themselves. That's all right, though, because they have hands-free phone devices screwed into their ears. It's not like the other people who walk down the street and shout to themselves. I heard all about one woman's divorce while I looked at sweaters I wished I hadn't touched. What fiber is it that makes sweaters feel slimy in designer discount chains? Why do I keep touching them? I smell like someone else's perfume. There were lotion samples. I tried them all. I'm a fruit bowl now. Did any of us know what verbena was a few years ago? Do we know now? It is a relaxing shade of green and it tempts me with promises of invigorating citrus undertones. It smells kind of like a urinal cake.
I am drinking French bottled sparkling water to soothe whatever beast has set up shop in my belly. I am trying not to blame three days of enchiladas. Anything but the enchiladas. It is an international incident in my intestines. The French and the Mexicans squaring off for possession of 23 feet of dark, cramped real estate. For now, the French are winning. The Mexicans are blaming the Americans. Never eat enchiladas from an establishment that is also known for its tater tots. They can call them "Mexi-fries" all they want, but we know the truth - the delicious, dangerous truth.
I am pretending that my car is a shuttle to another world. The world where I buy things like window treatments and decorative candle holders and create tasteful "tablescapes" in my home instead of buying lime green striped socks and seasonal M&Ms and thinking of places to shove piles of paper. My shuttle smells like corn dogs and feet. This is not a dignified mode of transportation, I fear. What if the corn dog smell clings to me along with the lemon verbena urinal cake and combined with my crazy hair makes me One To Be Avoided like the man in the library? How would I know the difference between the usual avoidance and the purposeful avoidance? I console myself that I am drinking French bottled sparkling water and therefore, classy.
I imagine I am tall and elegant and practice walking as if balancing a plate of apples on my head: neck extended, shoulders back, drawing a line from the top of my head to my coccyx. I have replaced my flapping gap-toothed jeans with flowing skirts and an ermine cape, just so. I am tempted to sweep through the aisles like a dowager, commanding the cans of black beans and bags of coffee to jump into my cart, to do my bidding like eunuchs, chop-chop. I amuse myself and then remember that it's just me, walking around trying not to think about how my hair just feels like it looks ridiculous today.
I am spending my fortune a dollar at a time on half-finished ideas and promises; shadows and imitations of things stacked in bins. Only one dollar. I forgot what I came in here for. It's like a casino with the distracting lighting and ambiguous exits. I have things in my hands that I don't remember picking up: a box of note cards, a kitchen gadget, cupcake papers that look like Russian nesting dolls. Perhaps I should eat the cupcake papers; send the Russians in to settle the Intestinal International Incident. Would that start World War 3? Probably so. Domino effect and whatnot. Not to mention the ramifications of eating twelve useless, beautifully designed cupcake papers. I should set these things down and step away. It's dangerous in here.
I am listening to children who are hungry and bored, two women who are very upset with someone and say so over and over to each other, clucking and nodding affirmation each time. I am listening to a girl explain to her boyfriend about the socks. I catch snatches and bits of words that float around me, muted and distorted by large tiled spaces stacked with consumer goods. I wonder if they know I will write about them all. That I will try on their perspectives like outfits and wonder what it's like to be so angry about library fines. To remember being small and bored in the store with my mom. To gossip freely with a friend about someone who has wronged me. To speak with such bitterness of my new-found freedom from matrimony to the invisible person on the other end of the line. I wonder if they know they are being watched. I wonder if any of them will write about me. It's possible, you know.
"I am just telling you that if I find any overdue fines on my account, I will sue you and the library and the city."
I wonder how many overdue fines he has that would justify the legal fees for a massive lawsuit. I also wonder if it is worse to be a city librarian or a city bus driver. I envision this man speaking in his loud, even tones to the bus driver, too. I check out my stack of graphic novels and dark Australian rock and roll and try not to stare. I can't afford a lawsuit right now.
Well dressed people walk down the street and shout to themselves. That's all right, though, because they have hands-free phone devices screwed into their ears. It's not like the other people who walk down the street and shout to themselves. I heard all about one woman's divorce while I looked at sweaters I wished I hadn't touched. What fiber is it that makes sweaters feel slimy in designer discount chains? Why do I keep touching them? I smell like someone else's perfume. There were lotion samples. I tried them all. I'm a fruit bowl now. Did any of us know what verbena was a few years ago? Do we know now? It is a relaxing shade of green and it tempts me with promises of invigorating citrus undertones. It smells kind of like a urinal cake.
I am drinking French bottled sparkling water to soothe whatever beast has set up shop in my belly. I am trying not to blame three days of enchiladas. Anything but the enchiladas. It is an international incident in my intestines. The French and the Mexicans squaring off for possession of 23 feet of dark, cramped real estate. For now, the French are winning. The Mexicans are blaming the Americans. Never eat enchiladas from an establishment that is also known for its tater tots. They can call them "Mexi-fries" all they want, but we know the truth - the delicious, dangerous truth.
I am pretending that my car is a shuttle to another world. The world where I buy things like window treatments and decorative candle holders and create tasteful "tablescapes" in my home instead of buying lime green striped socks and seasonal M&Ms and thinking of places to shove piles of paper. My shuttle smells like corn dogs and feet. This is not a dignified mode of transportation, I fear. What if the corn dog smell clings to me along with the lemon verbena urinal cake and combined with my crazy hair makes me One To Be Avoided like the man in the library? How would I know the difference between the usual avoidance and the purposeful avoidance? I console myself that I am drinking French bottled sparkling water and therefore, classy.
I imagine I am tall and elegant and practice walking as if balancing a plate of apples on my head: neck extended, shoulders back, drawing a line from the top of my head to my coccyx. I have replaced my flapping gap-toothed jeans with flowing skirts and an ermine cape, just so. I am tempted to sweep through the aisles like a dowager, commanding the cans of black beans and bags of coffee to jump into my cart, to do my bidding like eunuchs, chop-chop. I amuse myself and then remember that it's just me, walking around trying not to think about how my hair just feels like it looks ridiculous today.
I am spending my fortune a dollar at a time on half-finished ideas and promises; shadows and imitations of things stacked in bins. Only one dollar. I forgot what I came in here for. It's like a casino with the distracting lighting and ambiguous exits. I have things in my hands that I don't remember picking up: a box of note cards, a kitchen gadget, cupcake papers that look like Russian nesting dolls. Perhaps I should eat the cupcake papers; send the Russians in to settle the Intestinal International Incident. Would that start World War 3? Probably so. Domino effect and whatnot. Not to mention the ramifications of eating twelve useless, beautifully designed cupcake papers. I should set these things down and step away. It's dangerous in here.
I am listening to children who are hungry and bored, two women who are very upset with someone and say so over and over to each other, clucking and nodding affirmation each time. I am listening to a girl explain to her boyfriend about the socks. I catch snatches and bits of words that float around me, muted and distorted by large tiled spaces stacked with consumer goods. I wonder if they know I will write about them all. That I will try on their perspectives like outfits and wonder what it's like to be so angry about library fines. To remember being small and bored in the store with my mom. To gossip freely with a friend about someone who has wronged me. To speak with such bitterness of my new-found freedom from matrimony to the invisible person on the other end of the line. I wonder if they know they are being watched. I wonder if any of them will write about me. It's possible, you know.
