And this guy, middle forties maybe, he’s munching a cookie he has yet to pay for—he’s munching it at the back of the store. Where he’s munching it, that’s right in front of the dairy section. While he’s at it, the munching, maybe he’s scheming to steal a swig of milk. And this guy, he’s no bum—he’s a suited businessman just stepped off the Metra. Where I’m at is parked in my Corolla in the lot. And my eyes are on him through this windshield and through that White Hen’s floor-to-ceiling glass window. My eyes are on him munching this unpaid-for cookie as my mouth munches a cookie of my own. The difference? It’s a paid-for cookie I’m munching. Then, the guy—cookie crumbs newly clinging to his suit, his shirt, his tie—he spots me. And there we are, squinting each other slowly munching our cookies into oblivion.
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Showing posts from March, 2005
What he does is, he takes the seat next to the condom wrapper. Maybe—I don’t know—this is so I won’t sit next to him? So I take the seat on the other side of the aisle—the, the throughway—whatever you call it. And he sits there like he doesn’t even see the thing, the blue wrapper, lying there next to him. He’s goin’ on and on about—I don’t know—that new Battlestar Galactica series—no, the new one—with the insatiable horny/sexy Cylon chicks. He’s goin’, “Man, just the attention to detail alone —Man, this is an evolution in televised episodic science fiction…” And the former contents of the wrapper? Nowhere in sight. Unless he was sitting on the thing. I know I wasn’t. Yeah, I actually stood up a little and brushed my hand over my jeans — and this, let me tell you, was a true moment of concern. Because the notion of finding a gooey used Lifestyles stuck to your ass is not a pleasant one. It’s never happened to me—knock wood—but the notion alone signals my stomach to reject this mornin
SY Everybody’s got a God given gift, right? BOB Sure. SY Mine? It’s letting opportunity slip on by. BOB No… SY It’s absolutely true. I’ll open the door, every single time, the exact moment after Mr. Opportunity gives up knocking. BOB I don’t believe tha— SY Why do I do this? BOB But you have taken advant— SY Why, at every turn of the corner, every single one, Bob, why do I self-sabotage myself? BOB Well if you’d listen for a momen— SY It’s because I enjoy doing it. BOB Please. Sy— Sy Or, maybe… maybe it’s an addiction. Yeah, deep down, I crave the feeling of being a walking Fowl-Up. And I fowl-up everything . From job opportunities to dating opportunities. I let it all roll on by. BOB What about— What about— SY Because, I was raised to be a brooder. A brooder and a pouter. Because, in my childhood, that’s how I got things. I wasn’t really an inventive child, you know. I was simply an effective stick in the mud. And I threw fits no other crybaby in this world could touch. I’m te
The hair on my head, I’m not loosing. Least not yet. Knock wood. But the hair on my crotch, that stuff keeps dropping out; turning all my whitey-tighties into some kind of funky red-orange shag-rug. Not that I’m complaining. Better to loose it down town than up town, right? I mean, who really needs it down there, anyway? Now if only I could get my back hair to take a cue from my pubic hair…
The new neighbor — the wife? She looked up from her driveway, just in front of the garage, and she caught me through the window changing from my shorts into my jeans. She’s not bad looking, either. And, I think, or, I can only hope, that all my efforts at the gym have made me a better looking male. Perhaps, to her, even good looking. And, compared to tubby-hubby, that is without doubt.
That trash — you know why he reads that trash ? Because, that trash — it’s all about relationship fuck-ups he’ll never have. He reads that trash — that LaBute men-screwing-over-women and vice-versa trash because, he can then — yes, this is what he does — he can then — look himself — I’m telling you, this is always what he does — look himself in the mirror every empty Friday and Saturday night and say to the reflection: "See?" He says it again and again: “ See ?” Each one louder and louder: “ SEE ?” Because, I don’t know, maybe he’s blind. And, in many ways, he is . “SEE?” This is what he’s doing. Me ? I’m running late. People are waiting — and these are people largely of the female persuasion. And this is what he’s doing. The water running in the sink and the shower — the faucets twisted all the way so they’re gushing like Niagara-fucking-Falls — so I can’t, I guess, hear. AND HE’S YELLING THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS OUT AT THE FUCKING MIRROR. And for what ? He’s trying
It’s the upright colored-in triangle with the colored-in matching bar smack dab below it. This is the button he keeps hitting three seconds after every first track plays. And the tray spits the disc out and he Frisbees the thing across the room and the thing bounces off the peeling wallpaper or bounces off the cracked head-to-toe mirror or bounces off one of two cracking windows. And the disc lands on a growing heap of discs recently Frisbeed. And this he’s doing with the entire collection. Not his own, mind you. These are all hers. And she has hundreds. And this is also her component system, in her apartment. And what he’s doing is, he’s seeking out the most appropriate song to set on repeat to blow her speakers out on. And that’s when she walks in, right when he’s come upon the perfect song. And she wants to know, “The fuck is this?" And he wants to know, "The fuck you’re early?” And there they are, blinking rage at each other. She picks discs up off the cat-furred-over car