In her horrible little novel, "Charlotte Temple", Rowson leans heavily on the tired convention of the moral. Her particular moral can be summed up as "you should seek to be wholly protected from the world by keeping yourself under the care of your family." The reason this might make sense within the story is because the main character, Charlotte, falls victim to a plot hatched by the opportunist Miss La Rue. Had Charlotte followed this moral more stringently, she would supposedly have fared much better than she actually did. From a contemporary perspective, this is hardly a worthwhile practice, but Rowson may be excused somewhat for her shortsightedness. After all, she wrote this during the Sentimentalist period, so we should not expect too much from her. One of the key markers of this period is a stout display of naivete by the main character. However, it is hard to imagine how this would be a good moral to follow during any period, whatsoever.
The moral appeals to what I will call a shelterist mentality. Charlotte should have sought the shelter of her family, particularly her father, instead of trusting her own supposedly inferior judgement. This kind of thinking presupposes that her own judgement is inherently worse than her parents', specifically, her father's. It seems rather intuitive that if she were to make that supposition, she would tend to see herself as an unintelligent individual. It would discourage her from facing any challenge whatsoever that is not first approved by her parents. And this essentially means that as long as she lives according to this moral, she will not face anything more challenging than her own loving father.
Yes, this might work, given one of two conditions are met. She either has to live in a hermetically sealed bubble, or her father has to be God. In a bubble, she would be totally safe, as long as she never stepped outside of the bubble. If her father were God... all bets would be off. In the real world, either of these conditions are seldom met. It turns out that there are in fact many Miss La Rue types out there. In order for the moral to be worth while, it would have to give us a clue as to how to deal with these kinds of people. Simply avoiding them would only be possible if we knew everything about them without going through the trouble of being duped by them in order to learn anything valuable about them them.
Rowson might respond that you don't need to know EVERYTHING about La Rue, just the important stuff, like whether or not she is trustworthy. You can get that information from other people you already trust. The best source for this would, of course, be your family. And the best family member would be, as always, the patriarch.
But, how does your family know whether or not its sources are trustworthy, which leads to questioning the structure of determining trustworthiness, which leads to a never ending loop of paranoia, ad infinitum? At some point someone has to be up to the challenge of dealing with La Rue.
Rowson would say to ignore all this nonsense, that the right person to deal with La Rue would be the patriarch,and that's all you need to worry about. And this works as a systematic approach because Charlotte is living in a fictional, patriarchal society. She will always have a patriarch there to protect her.
But when Rowson invokes the concept of "protecting" a proper translation would be something more like "thinking". Her father will do all the thinking for her until she is married off... then her husband will take it from there.
The moral is short sighted because in reality you can never be wholly
protected from the outside world, unless of course you were completely
isolated from it. Supposing this principle was known to her all along, I
assume she was at least trying to follow it, and was tricked into stepping
away from it. By adhering to this principle, as well as she knew how,
Charlotte was made especially susceptible to the wiles of such savory
characters as La Rue. In other words, we can try to follow the principle,
but it tends to make us vulnerable to being compromised - to compromising the very principle we are trying to follow. Again, it might work as long as there are no La Rues in the picture. But there are loads of them.
Therefore, it's a doomed principle.
I think this would parallel Uncle Tom's Cabin in the sense that the
principle Uncle Tom is adhering to is designed to keep him at bay. The
fact that he is working against his own interests is one thing, but when
Stowe presents it as a matter of fact, she is prescribing a certain moral
standard. Just as it is supposedly better for Uncle Tom to remain docile,
so too is it better for Charlotte to remain completely isolated from the
outside world. They follow the same shitty logic.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Germ Girl
Jan walked down the aisle. Her back pack bumped against some of the seats that she passed. She wondered if she was disrupting these passengers’ trips too much. She had spilled coffee into her backpack a few days ago. It smelled bad by now. The other passengers could probably smell it. They probably had a bad impression of her. The train moved like waves over bigger swells. She steadied up by grabbing the brown plastic handle on one of the seats. Thousands of germs bit on to her skin. She wanted to not use the hand any more until she washed it.
She sat down next to a boy wearing a black suit. She knew that it only looked black to her. In reality it was very dark blue. The boy probably did important business at a bank. He spoke into his little phone about another boy named Stew. Jan tried to ignore the boy’s side of the conversation because it was not her business. However, trying to ignore it only gave her super sonic hearing. Stew had screwed up the internal audit. The boy in the dark blue suit wasn’t going to take any heat for what Stew did. He would call Stew and get to the bottom of things.
The boy in the black suit calmed down and said goodbye. He hung up the phone and leaned back. He moved his arms and his head around. He folded up the little phone and set it carefully on the leather bag in his lap. He looked like he might be starting to have a heart attack. Jan knew CPR from long ago. In Girl Scouts they made her learn it on a dummy. She knew the mouth to mouth part. If the boy in the black suit needed it, she would have to go ahead and give it to him and not think about it. She should not have had to think about it. She thought about it anyway.
Heart attacks had nothing to do with obstructions in the throat. She could pound on his chest and use his little phone to call the 911 number. She would have to call information first to make sure. She would dial 411 first and speak to a computer about her city and state. Then to someone who sounded like a different computer. Then Jan’s voice would be recorded. Her recorded voice would bring a sterile ambulance. The sterile ambulance would take the boy away and make it okay again. Thinking about this made her start to calm down.
Soon the train hesitated. That meant it would stop soon. The boy collected his coat and briefcase. Jan let him get by. He left his little phone on the seat and Jan thought she had better reach it to him. She reached for it, but saw the part that had touched his face. She didn’t want to touch that. The boy headed down the aisle. When the train stopped, he stepped onto the platform. Jan saw him start to feel through his bag and his pockets. He looked at Jan through the window and she stared back at him, wondering if he could see through the glare. She did not think he could see her at all.
She sat down next to a boy wearing a black suit. She knew that it only looked black to her. In reality it was very dark blue. The boy probably did important business at a bank. He spoke into his little phone about another boy named Stew. Jan tried to ignore the boy’s side of the conversation because it was not her business. However, trying to ignore it only gave her super sonic hearing. Stew had screwed up the internal audit. The boy in the dark blue suit wasn’t going to take any heat for what Stew did. He would call Stew and get to the bottom of things.
The boy in the black suit calmed down and said goodbye. He hung up the phone and leaned back. He moved his arms and his head around. He folded up the little phone and set it carefully on the leather bag in his lap. He looked like he might be starting to have a heart attack. Jan knew CPR from long ago. In Girl Scouts they made her learn it on a dummy. She knew the mouth to mouth part. If the boy in the black suit needed it, she would have to go ahead and give it to him and not think about it. She should not have had to think about it. She thought about it anyway.
Heart attacks had nothing to do with obstructions in the throat. She could pound on his chest and use his little phone to call the 911 number. She would have to call information first to make sure. She would dial 411 first and speak to a computer about her city and state. Then to someone who sounded like a different computer. Then Jan’s voice would be recorded. Her recorded voice would bring a sterile ambulance. The sterile ambulance would take the boy away and make it okay again. Thinking about this made her start to calm down.
Soon the train hesitated. That meant it would stop soon. The boy collected his coat and briefcase. Jan let him get by. He left his little phone on the seat and Jan thought she had better reach it to him. She reached for it, but saw the part that had touched his face. She didn’t want to touch that. The boy headed down the aisle. When the train stopped, he stepped onto the platform. Jan saw him start to feel through his bag and his pockets. He looked at Jan through the window and she stared back at him, wondering if he could see through the glare. She did not think he could see her at all.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Courier
Dennis was this eager young guy trying to start his own business. He had made a pledge to himself to do anything it took to make his business successful. His business consisted of him delivering groceries by himself on his bicycle. The only problem, as far as his business went, was that even with the high gas prices, trucks could still do his job cheaper and faster.
Early on in the short life span of his business he gained one solid, reliable customer named Stanley. Stanley weighed some 1,200 pounds and by the time he and Dennis hooked up, he couldn't leave his bed. Dennis had to roll his bike right into the man's bedroom and line up the brown paper bags on T.V. trays that were all within arms reach for Stanley.
Stanley ate mostly Snickers bars and potato chips. He drank nothing but two liter bottles of Coke, almost in a single chug (not that Dennis ever witnessed these feats). Dennis found the man very mysterious because he never left any evidence of having consumed food. No candy bar wrappers. No empty potato chip bags. No scent of defecation in the room.
There was plenty of body odor though, in the room. Stuck on the third floor, and with no air conditioner, Stanley spent most of his time in a state of sweltering agony.
"Say Dennis?" he finally said one day. It was the first verbal communication he had ever initiated with Dennis. All his grocery lists were notes scribbled and left on one of the tables. "Could I pay you to put in that air conditioner, maybe, next time you come around?" His voice was amazingly soft and delicate, almost like a girl's voice. It sounded like he had saved his voice since he was five years old.
"Sure, man," said Dennis, hoisting the last paper bag into place. The temperature at that moment was 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Dennis had decided not to do or say anything, until now, about the heat because he did not want to risk embarrassing his best customer. In fact, he worried that Stanley would soon become his only customer, as nobody seemed to care for his service.
He certainly questioned the ethicacy of delivering so much junk food to such a fat man. But he only allowed that doubt to surface briefly from time to time. If he were to seriously consider stopping the practice, he would have had to abandon his work completely.
He believed that if the business could just take off he would be able to do all sorts of good things. Especially for all the Stanleys out there.
Of course he could have lifted the air conditioner into place. It wasn't very big, and he had installed similar units many times before. It would have taken him five minutes, but he decided to do it next time because he wanted to appear busy. As soon as the last bag was in place, he said thank you and asked if there was anything else he could do.
Stanley tightened his lips and indicated a second note on one of the tables. In the center of the note was scrawled:
Please discretely pick up Ms. Julie, from her front steps on the 500 block of South Street.
"Why don't you just call a cab?"
*
Stanley started to worry. It hadn't occurred to him to call a cab because he had forgotten all about them. Dennis was his only point of contact with the outside world. Before Dennis came along, it was his neighbor, Eve, who checked in on him every other day. She was 96 years old when she died the week before. The last thing she did before she croaked was navigate her electric scooter down to the sidewalk and return with one of Dennis's fliers. She set it on Stanley's stomach facing him so he could read it before she returned to her apartment where she thudded out of her scooter and made no more sounds.
Stanley felt incredibly stupid, having asked for such an unreasonable thing. He started breathing heavier than ever and the bottoms of his legs itched terribly. He had to pass gas quite terribly as well, but that would have certainly made things much more unbearable.
"Okay okay," said Dennis. "I was kidding."
*
Dennis could barely read the note and he tried to picture how Stanley could possibly reach the notebook (wherever he kept it) and how he could manage to write. It didn't seem like he could possibly see what he was writing.
What was he going to do with a prostitute anyway? he wondered. Julie sounded like a very blasé name for a prostitute. A little too good, almost girl next door good.
At what he thought was the appropriate block, based on his interpretation of the note, there was no girl named Julie waiting to be picked up on a bicycle. There was nobody at all on this block. If there had been anybody in sight, this block might not have filled him with so much dread and loathing. He was afraid to stay in this area, but in obedience to the pledge he had made to his fledgling business, he rode slowly up the sidewalk. This is bravery, he thought. I am very brave.
Then he heard a voice right next to his head say, "Excuse me, can you help me? Sir can you come here?"
Dennis froze because he expected to be struck in the head or shot. The voice came from behind the bars of a first story window. "I um, I need help, um, moving this T.V." said the voice. "It's really huge!" Dennis could not tell if the voice was male or female, which he found creepy.
"Can you please come inside?"
The living room was extremely small but also neat and sweet smelling. The owner of the voice moved to the center of the small room and sat almost in a yoga position, avoiding the love seat. It was a short little ugly man, wearing mascara and lipstick. His face was powdered pale and his fake mole was a little too big. He kept shifting around as if he had accidentally sat on a piece of glass, so he never quite struck the yoga position.
Dennis crossed and uncrossed his arms a few times, strategizing.
The man gave Dennis a flirtatious eye and quickly turned his head away. "It's in here," he said, climbing to his feet and then striding into the kitchen. He shot Dennis a direct eye contact look as he disappeared out of view. "I want to show you something, um, what did you say your name was?"
Dennis figured by now that there was no T.V.. Most accidents, he knew, took place in the kitchen, because of all the knives and he knew that if he were to scream due to being stabbed, nobody would much care out there in the ghost neighborhood. He did some nervous tapping with his foot. "Dennis," he said, trying to sound tough. "I didn't catch yours?"
The man cat walked out of the kitchen with his shirt already off. His chest was freshly waxed and from his back pocket he produced a business card with nothing on it but his name, number and a lavender scent. His name was Julio but as Dennis turned the card in the light, the o changed to an e and then back to an o.
Julio circled around behind him and ran his fingers across his shoulders.
"Julie?"
*
Stanley's place smelled like rotten meat. Dennis wondered if some raw bacon hadn't fallen out of reach several days ago. "You should have called a cab." The heat was like the inside of a microwave.
Of course Dennis had never delivered anything so healthy as raw bacon, which could only mean that Stanley must have died some time ago! This thought floated briefly through Dennis's mind, but it threatened to completely undermine his business agenda, forcing him to consider diversifying.
"Did somebody die in here?" Julio asked.
"He's in there," said Dennis. "He needs your help moving... a really huge air conditioner."
"You don't say." Julio sat in his yoga position with his legs crossed and his feet on top of his legs. "Can you hear that?" This time he was able to sit still.
Dennis could hear the footsteps of neighbors and a woman's voice scolding a kid or a man or a dog.
"What's dripping in there?"
"Air conditioner. Sometimes they condensate and leak all over the floor." Of course, he still hadn't installed it.
"Whatever it is, it's not my problem."
"Mine either, and I've got other jobs I need to take care of. I have responsibilities."
"I understand. I think I'll be leaving as well. This isn't what I signed up for."
Dennis squeezed his brake levers and slowly walked his bike out of the apartment.
Early on in the short life span of his business he gained one solid, reliable customer named Stanley. Stanley weighed some 1,200 pounds and by the time he and Dennis hooked up, he couldn't leave his bed. Dennis had to roll his bike right into the man's bedroom and line up the brown paper bags on T.V. trays that were all within arms reach for Stanley.
Stanley ate mostly Snickers bars and potato chips. He drank nothing but two liter bottles of Coke, almost in a single chug (not that Dennis ever witnessed these feats). Dennis found the man very mysterious because he never left any evidence of having consumed food. No candy bar wrappers. No empty potato chip bags. No scent of defecation in the room.
There was plenty of body odor though, in the room. Stuck on the third floor, and with no air conditioner, Stanley spent most of his time in a state of sweltering agony.
"Say Dennis?" he finally said one day. It was the first verbal communication he had ever initiated with Dennis. All his grocery lists were notes scribbled and left on one of the tables. "Could I pay you to put in that air conditioner, maybe, next time you come around?" His voice was amazingly soft and delicate, almost like a girl's voice. It sounded like he had saved his voice since he was five years old.
"Sure, man," said Dennis, hoisting the last paper bag into place. The temperature at that moment was 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Dennis had decided not to do or say anything, until now, about the heat because he did not want to risk embarrassing his best customer. In fact, he worried that Stanley would soon become his only customer, as nobody seemed to care for his service.
He certainly questioned the ethicacy of delivering so much junk food to such a fat man. But he only allowed that doubt to surface briefly from time to time. If he were to seriously consider stopping the practice, he would have had to abandon his work completely.
He believed that if the business could just take off he would be able to do all sorts of good things. Especially for all the Stanleys out there.
Of course he could have lifted the air conditioner into place. It wasn't very big, and he had installed similar units many times before. It would have taken him five minutes, but he decided to do it next time because he wanted to appear busy. As soon as the last bag was in place, he said thank you and asked if there was anything else he could do.
Stanley tightened his lips and indicated a second note on one of the tables. In the center of the note was scrawled:
Please discretely pick up Ms. Julie, from her front steps on the 500 block of South Street.
"Why don't you just call a cab?"
*
Stanley started to worry. It hadn't occurred to him to call a cab because he had forgotten all about them. Dennis was his only point of contact with the outside world. Before Dennis came along, it was his neighbor, Eve, who checked in on him every other day. She was 96 years old when she died the week before. The last thing she did before she croaked was navigate her electric scooter down to the sidewalk and return with one of Dennis's fliers. She set it on Stanley's stomach facing him so he could read it before she returned to her apartment where she thudded out of her scooter and made no more sounds.
Stanley felt incredibly stupid, having asked for such an unreasonable thing. He started breathing heavier than ever and the bottoms of his legs itched terribly. He had to pass gas quite terribly as well, but that would have certainly made things much more unbearable.
"Okay okay," said Dennis. "I was kidding."
*
Dennis could barely read the note and he tried to picture how Stanley could possibly reach the notebook (wherever he kept it) and how he could manage to write. It didn't seem like he could possibly see what he was writing.
What was he going to do with a prostitute anyway? he wondered. Julie sounded like a very blasé name for a prostitute. A little too good, almost girl next door good.
At what he thought was the appropriate block, based on his interpretation of the note, there was no girl named Julie waiting to be picked up on a bicycle. There was nobody at all on this block. If there had been anybody in sight, this block might not have filled him with so much dread and loathing. He was afraid to stay in this area, but in obedience to the pledge he had made to his fledgling business, he rode slowly up the sidewalk. This is bravery, he thought. I am very brave.
Then he heard a voice right next to his head say, "Excuse me, can you help me? Sir can you come here?"
Dennis froze because he expected to be struck in the head or shot. The voice came from behind the bars of a first story window. "I um, I need help, um, moving this T.V." said the voice. "It's really huge!" Dennis could not tell if the voice was male or female, which he found creepy.
"Can you please come inside?"
The living room was extremely small but also neat and sweet smelling. The owner of the voice moved to the center of the small room and sat almost in a yoga position, avoiding the love seat. It was a short little ugly man, wearing mascara and lipstick. His face was powdered pale and his fake mole was a little too big. He kept shifting around as if he had accidentally sat on a piece of glass, so he never quite struck the yoga position.
Dennis crossed and uncrossed his arms a few times, strategizing.
The man gave Dennis a flirtatious eye and quickly turned his head away. "It's in here," he said, climbing to his feet and then striding into the kitchen. He shot Dennis a direct eye contact look as he disappeared out of view. "I want to show you something, um, what did you say your name was?"
Dennis figured by now that there was no T.V.. Most accidents, he knew, took place in the kitchen, because of all the knives and he knew that if he were to scream due to being stabbed, nobody would much care out there in the ghost neighborhood. He did some nervous tapping with his foot. "Dennis," he said, trying to sound tough. "I didn't catch yours?"
The man cat walked out of the kitchen with his shirt already off. His chest was freshly waxed and from his back pocket he produced a business card with nothing on it but his name, number and a lavender scent. His name was Julio but as Dennis turned the card in the light, the o changed to an e and then back to an o.
Julio circled around behind him and ran his fingers across his shoulders.
"Julie?"
*
Stanley's place smelled like rotten meat. Dennis wondered if some raw bacon hadn't fallen out of reach several days ago. "You should have called a cab." The heat was like the inside of a microwave.
Of course Dennis had never delivered anything so healthy as raw bacon, which could only mean that Stanley must have died some time ago! This thought floated briefly through Dennis's mind, but it threatened to completely undermine his business agenda, forcing him to consider diversifying.
"Did somebody die in here?" Julio asked.
"He's in there," said Dennis. "He needs your help moving... a really huge air conditioner."
"You don't say." Julio sat in his yoga position with his legs crossed and his feet on top of his legs. "Can you hear that?" This time he was able to sit still.
Dennis could hear the footsteps of neighbors and a woman's voice scolding a kid or a man or a dog.
"What's dripping in there?"
"Air conditioner. Sometimes they condensate and leak all over the floor." Of course, he still hadn't installed it.
"Whatever it is, it's not my problem."
"Mine either, and I've got other jobs I need to take care of. I have responsibilities."
"I understand. I think I'll be leaving as well. This isn't what I signed up for."
Dennis squeezed his brake levers and slowly walked his bike out of the apartment.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Closet
I was building Curtis's closet in the dark hallway of his house. I used a big rectangular sponge, the size of an old King James Bible, instead of sandpaper to sand down the final layer of spackle. That was a very intentional way to eliminate that fine white dust that you would get from sanding the normal way. It was also supposed to yield much better results.
Curtis was a pastor for a small church. I wondered if he drew a commission off the tithes, or if he lived by faith. I didn't want to judge him either way. I was a very easy going guy.
He had taken off a while ago and I forgot to ask when he would be back. I suspected any minute.
I pushed the sponge to the bottom of the warm water in the blue pail and squeezed the air bubbles out. Then I pulled it up and squeezed out the water. I tried to focus on being a part of things.
I pressed the damp sponge against one of my joints and rubbed it back and forth, massaging the already smooth surface. I had taped and spackled so deliberately and carefully that it almost didn't need the sanding, wet or dry. I could have almost gone straight to the painting.
That spackle, dry as a wood splinter, sucked the moisture from my sponge. It felt like washing a rusty car.
There was a guy, I couldn't remember his relation to Curtis, who lived there, on his couch. I should have known him better by now, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember the details of his life. He was roaming the house, aimless as a ghost. I could hear him singing one of those irritating Christian rock songs. It was a love song to Jesus, but if you didn't know any better, it would have sounded homo-erotic.
As he approached the door of the closet he sang, "I want to be in his arms again." He sounded sad and he had his hands behind his back, like this was Sunday school.
I looked at him, which caused him to stop his serenade. He commenced staring closely at my handiwork.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"About what?"
"Anything."
"I think I've just been dumped," he said, holding up a cordless phone. "She said we should spend time apart. I'm too immature."
I could imagine that. He was wearing a backwards baseball cap, a football jersey and long glossy basketball shorts.
I shined the fluorescent flashlight across the spot I had been sponging. I could see tiny deep lines that would show through the paint. This was a setback. "I'm gouging it," I said.
"You need sandpaper or something?"
"The sponge is supposed to be the best possible method. This's never happened before."
I squeezed the sponge extra hard and barely dusted the spackle. "How's the job hunt?" I asked.
"Well, it's tough when you don't have a car."
I remembered seeing him and his girlfriend stepping out of a car. It must have been hers. She also had a kid about four years old. I couldn't remember how old this guy was, but he seemed much younger than me. Nor could I remember his name.
You can only ask someone their name so many times. After a while you start to look callous.
I shined the light across the seam again. It made shadows inside all the scratches the sponge was making. It looked like the tiny lines they scrape into sidewalks just before the concrete sets. "I need to get away from this for a minute," I said.
He was tossing the cordless phone, making it flip and spin like a high diver. He needed inspiration, or at least someone to tell him what to do.
The most inspiring thing I could think of was, of course, my Shogun. "Let me show you my bike," I said.
He followed me outside where I pulled my bike off the side of the garage and rolled it to the middle of the driveway.
"You rode here?"
"That's my point!" I said. "It's only ten miles to the light rail. If you had a bike, you could apply all the way from Philadelphia to New York!"
He pinched the front tire, kind of condescendingly. "Man, that's a nice bike," he said with strained enthusiasm. "You must fly... like Lance Armstrong."
I was a little confused at that comment. I stared at him. Apparently he thought speed was the whole point. "It can only go about fifteen miles an hour," I said. I pointed to the center of the rear wheel, where there would normally be a derailer and gears. "I took it down to a single speed."
"No kidding! This thing is tight! You must go like," he paused, "friggin' Lance Armstrong."
I took the bike and leaned it back against the garage. I couldn't tell if this guy was joking or not. His girlfriend was right. This guy was just a kid. "Yes I do," I said. "I fly just like Lance Armstrong."
"Must be in shape, dude."
I was completely deflated by his stonewalling. All I wanted was to help him out and he was shutting me down. "Yes, that's why I brought you out here: to tell you what great shape I'm in and to say that I fly like Lance Armstrong. Any questions?"
He was back to flipping that phone again. He was chewing something and when he spat, he dropped the phone and the battery danced across the driveway. Where the spit landed it was black like chewing tobacco.
"If you really wanted to work," I said, "you could make it happen."
He stooped down, grabbing the pieces. "I know I'm a loser," he said. "I'm gonna' go kill myself now."
Did he think that was funny? I wondered. Then he laughed nervously and gave me a wink. It was the kind of wink your uncle gives you. It was a demeaning thing to do, but he must not have understood. So I let go of it.
"You're in a slump," I said. "You can turn it around. You just have to want to. You know you can choose to want it."
"I see your point," he said, defeated. He opened the door and held it open for he. Now I needed a break not only from the work, but from this guy too. Being nice is hard work sometimes. He tried to push the battery back into place. As soon as the cover snapped back on, the phone rang, like an automatic reset alarm had been triggered.
Of course he answered and forgot about me. The door shut behind him.
I wasn't ready to go back in there and face him again, or the spackle, so I scrounged around in the garage for a while. It was an absolutely devastating use of space. It made me never want to own a house. Bicycles were lying onto of a radial-arm saw. A ladder was leaning across a decapitated basketball hoop. Under a crumpled sheet of plastic I found an unopened Coke. Jackpot, I thought.
I sat down on a paint can and started to drink it. It was sweet and perfect and the bubbles bit into my tongue. I held it there in my mouth, savoring it. You have to try to be part of things this way. Ultimately it makes you more compassionate.
Then I realized that if Curtis returned at just that moment, it wouldn't look good for me. So I downed the rest of the Coke, cutting short my meditation session. I returned the empty to where I'd found it and went back inside.
The guy looked much better. Much happier. He was in to some serious phone twirling.
"She take you back?" I asked.
"Nope," he said. "Forget her! That was Sarah. Looks like I'm not single anymore!"
I gave him back that wink. He was back on top, thanks to me. I wanted him to hold onto that triumph, but I couldn't share in his little celebration. Whatever he was feeling was certain to be temporary. He hadn't figured anything out. In the long run, I realized, it would be better if he had to find his own way. He seemed like a puppet.
"Praise God!" he said. Then he waited for my reply.
Of course, I nodded. That's what you do. He looked closer at me, to make sure it was the real deal, so I kept it up. I kept nodding until he believed me. Then I reluctantly picked up the sponge again. It was heavy with water. I was beginning to think it would ever do the trick. "Maybe I'll take you up on that sand paper," I said. I dropped the sponge a little too hard into the bucket, and a few drops splashed onto my wall.
He surprised me by pulling a sanding sponge out from behind his back. Those basketball shorts didn't have any pockets. He must have had it tucked between the elastic and his skin. "Here," he said.
"That's been touching your ass hasn't it."
He stood there holding it out to me. "I guess."
I hesitated to accept because something seemed strange about it, the way he was holding his arm out. He looked like a statue, almost. And I was like a smaller statue, looking up at him. It made me a little uncomfortable but reluctantly I accepted. "I hope you like dust," I said.
I took the pail into the bathroom just across the hall and poured it down the toilet. I poured it slowly, watching the cream colored water fill the bowl. As the dirty warm water flowed in I could hear it forcing the cold clear water down the pipes, unused.
Curtis was a pastor for a small church. I wondered if he drew a commission off the tithes, or if he lived by faith. I didn't want to judge him either way. I was a very easy going guy.
He had taken off a while ago and I forgot to ask when he would be back. I suspected any minute.
I pushed the sponge to the bottom of the warm water in the blue pail and squeezed the air bubbles out. Then I pulled it up and squeezed out the water. I tried to focus on being a part of things.
I pressed the damp sponge against one of my joints and rubbed it back and forth, massaging the already smooth surface. I had taped and spackled so deliberately and carefully that it almost didn't need the sanding, wet or dry. I could have almost gone straight to the painting.
That spackle, dry as a wood splinter, sucked the moisture from my sponge. It felt like washing a rusty car.
There was a guy, I couldn't remember his relation to Curtis, who lived there, on his couch. I should have known him better by now, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember the details of his life. He was roaming the house, aimless as a ghost. I could hear him singing one of those irritating Christian rock songs. It was a love song to Jesus, but if you didn't know any better, it would have sounded homo-erotic.
As he approached the door of the closet he sang, "I want to be in his arms again." He sounded sad and he had his hands behind his back, like this was Sunday school.
I looked at him, which caused him to stop his serenade. He commenced staring closely at my handiwork.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"About what?"
"Anything."
"I think I've just been dumped," he said, holding up a cordless phone. "She said we should spend time apart. I'm too immature."
I could imagine that. He was wearing a backwards baseball cap, a football jersey and long glossy basketball shorts.
I shined the fluorescent flashlight across the spot I had been sponging. I could see tiny deep lines that would show through the paint. This was a setback. "I'm gouging it," I said.
"You need sandpaper or something?"
"The sponge is supposed to be the best possible method. This's never happened before."
I squeezed the sponge extra hard and barely dusted the spackle. "How's the job hunt?" I asked.
"Well, it's tough when you don't have a car."
I remembered seeing him and his girlfriend stepping out of a car. It must have been hers. She also had a kid about four years old. I couldn't remember how old this guy was, but he seemed much younger than me. Nor could I remember his name.
You can only ask someone their name so many times. After a while you start to look callous.
I shined the light across the seam again. It made shadows inside all the scratches the sponge was making. It looked like the tiny lines they scrape into sidewalks just before the concrete sets. "I need to get away from this for a minute," I said.
He was tossing the cordless phone, making it flip and spin like a high diver. He needed inspiration, or at least someone to tell him what to do.
The most inspiring thing I could think of was, of course, my Shogun. "Let me show you my bike," I said.
He followed me outside where I pulled my bike off the side of the garage and rolled it to the middle of the driveway.
"You rode here?"
"That's my point!" I said. "It's only ten miles to the light rail. If you had a bike, you could apply all the way from Philadelphia to New York!"
He pinched the front tire, kind of condescendingly. "Man, that's a nice bike," he said with strained enthusiasm. "You must fly... like Lance Armstrong."
I was a little confused at that comment. I stared at him. Apparently he thought speed was the whole point. "It can only go about fifteen miles an hour," I said. I pointed to the center of the rear wheel, where there would normally be a derailer and gears. "I took it down to a single speed."
"No kidding! This thing is tight! You must go like," he paused, "friggin' Lance Armstrong."
I took the bike and leaned it back against the garage. I couldn't tell if this guy was joking or not. His girlfriend was right. This guy was just a kid. "Yes I do," I said. "I fly just like Lance Armstrong."
"Must be in shape, dude."
I was completely deflated by his stonewalling. All I wanted was to help him out and he was shutting me down. "Yes, that's why I brought you out here: to tell you what great shape I'm in and to say that I fly like Lance Armstrong. Any questions?"
He was back to flipping that phone again. He was chewing something and when he spat, he dropped the phone and the battery danced across the driveway. Where the spit landed it was black like chewing tobacco.
"If you really wanted to work," I said, "you could make it happen."
He stooped down, grabbing the pieces. "I know I'm a loser," he said. "I'm gonna' go kill myself now."
Did he think that was funny? I wondered. Then he laughed nervously and gave me a wink. It was the kind of wink your uncle gives you. It was a demeaning thing to do, but he must not have understood. So I let go of it.
"You're in a slump," I said. "You can turn it around. You just have to want to. You know you can choose to want it."
"I see your point," he said, defeated. He opened the door and held it open for he. Now I needed a break not only from the work, but from this guy too. Being nice is hard work sometimes. He tried to push the battery back into place. As soon as the cover snapped back on, the phone rang, like an automatic reset alarm had been triggered.
Of course he answered and forgot about me. The door shut behind him.
I wasn't ready to go back in there and face him again, or the spackle, so I scrounged around in the garage for a while. It was an absolutely devastating use of space. It made me never want to own a house. Bicycles were lying onto of a radial-arm saw. A ladder was leaning across a decapitated basketball hoop. Under a crumpled sheet of plastic I found an unopened Coke. Jackpot, I thought.
I sat down on a paint can and started to drink it. It was sweet and perfect and the bubbles bit into my tongue. I held it there in my mouth, savoring it. You have to try to be part of things this way. Ultimately it makes you more compassionate.
Then I realized that if Curtis returned at just that moment, it wouldn't look good for me. So I downed the rest of the Coke, cutting short my meditation session. I returned the empty to where I'd found it and went back inside.
The guy looked much better. Much happier. He was in to some serious phone twirling.
"She take you back?" I asked.
"Nope," he said. "Forget her! That was Sarah. Looks like I'm not single anymore!"
I gave him back that wink. He was back on top, thanks to me. I wanted him to hold onto that triumph, but I couldn't share in his little celebration. Whatever he was feeling was certain to be temporary. He hadn't figured anything out. In the long run, I realized, it would be better if he had to find his own way. He seemed like a puppet.
"Praise God!" he said. Then he waited for my reply.
Of course, I nodded. That's what you do. He looked closer at me, to make sure it was the real deal, so I kept it up. I kept nodding until he believed me. Then I reluctantly picked up the sponge again. It was heavy with water. I was beginning to think it would ever do the trick. "Maybe I'll take you up on that sand paper," I said. I dropped the sponge a little too hard into the bucket, and a few drops splashed onto my wall.
He surprised me by pulling a sanding sponge out from behind his back. Those basketball shorts didn't have any pockets. He must have had it tucked between the elastic and his skin. "Here," he said.
"That's been touching your ass hasn't it."
He stood there holding it out to me. "I guess."
I hesitated to accept because something seemed strange about it, the way he was holding his arm out. He looked like a statue, almost. And I was like a smaller statue, looking up at him. It made me a little uncomfortable but reluctantly I accepted. "I hope you like dust," I said.
I took the pail into the bathroom just across the hall and poured it down the toilet. I poured it slowly, watching the cream colored water fill the bowl. As the dirty warm water flowed in I could hear it forcing the cold clear water down the pipes, unused.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Lessons of the RU Screw
If you had only attended Rutgers University, and then decided to take a course or two at a community college, you would experience a moment of serene decompression. This is your body's natural reaction to not receiving the RU screw. The RU screw is more pervasive than you would ever guess. By your senior year you have probably internalized the very mechanism.
Take math for example. Math, specifically algebra, was a pyramid scam. If you didn't forget it soon, you were probably teaching it to the next victim. For money no less. It should have been shut down by the government.
In the summer before my senior year I decided it was time to take the math placement test.
Tradition dictates that you do this before starting your first semester, but that is a bad move. If you bomb the math, your GPA suffers. If you don't take it, you can maintain a higher GPA quite easily until after you apply to graduate school.
I thought it was best to wait until the last possible moment move when you're dealing with unjust institutions.
On the first day of class at Mercer County Community College, I quickly found a parking spot in their corn field sized parking lot.
The only thing I had planned for that day was to take the math placement test so I could enrol in a class. If I missed the first day of class, so much the better.
At the testing center there was no line. A small crowd had formed around the perimeter of the counter. Occasionally a hand would deliver a yellow form and a voice would patiently explain that "you need to fill this out first."
I, being a Rutgers man, refused to compete. The girl to my left was accompanied, and dwarfed, by her mother. The mother had come to advocate. "Yes, hello, this is my daughter, she needs to take the complete placement test and she needs the paper version, a couple pencils and a calculator."
Not even at Rutgers would she have received such star treatment. This wasn't Princeton. If you wanted special treatment, you had to connive.
The woman behind the counter calmly handed out another yellow form to the daughter. "She'll have to fill this out first." Then she turned to me.
"Is it even possible," I asked, "to take the math placement test today?"
"Oh," she said, "I'll have to check with my supervisor. There is a thirty dollar fee."
I looked at the crowd, then back at her. "Maybe it would be best if I can catch up with that after?" Of course, I had no interest in supporting the math regime.
"Good idea," she said. "Just make sure to stop by here on your way out." At Mercer, they think they have you over a barrel. Being the reasonable people that they are, they even feel sorry about it.
The supervisor walked me into the testing chamber, past the daughter who had stood next to me in line. She was all alone at a big table, taking the test. She had no calculator and only one pencil.
Soon the supervisor sat me down at a computer and explained the test to me. He even showed me how to find the computer's calculator.
About five minutes later, I scored into basic computation, and was skating the crowd at the front desk as if I had never been there before. I walked out the door with the same thirty dollars I had when I'd walked in.
Some might have considered this an act of stealing. I thought it was a noble gesture. I stuck it to math as best I could without being incredibly naive.
At Rutgers, I never could have made such a dent.
Take math for example. Math, specifically algebra, was a pyramid scam. If you didn't forget it soon, you were probably teaching it to the next victim. For money no less. It should have been shut down by the government.
In the summer before my senior year I decided it was time to take the math placement test.
Tradition dictates that you do this before starting your first semester, but that is a bad move. If you bomb the math, your GPA suffers. If you don't take it, you can maintain a higher GPA quite easily until after you apply to graduate school.
I thought it was best to wait until the last possible moment move when you're dealing with unjust institutions.
On the first day of class at Mercer County Community College, I quickly found a parking spot in their corn field sized parking lot.
The only thing I had planned for that day was to take the math placement test so I could enrol in a class. If I missed the first day of class, so much the better.
At the testing center there was no line. A small crowd had formed around the perimeter of the counter. Occasionally a hand would deliver a yellow form and a voice would patiently explain that "you need to fill this out first."
I, being a Rutgers man, refused to compete. The girl to my left was accompanied, and dwarfed, by her mother. The mother had come to advocate. "Yes, hello, this is my daughter, she needs to take the complete placement test and she needs the paper version, a couple pencils and a calculator."
Not even at Rutgers would she have received such star treatment. This wasn't Princeton. If you wanted special treatment, you had to connive.
The woman behind the counter calmly handed out another yellow form to the daughter. "She'll have to fill this out first." Then she turned to me.
"Is it even possible," I asked, "to take the math placement test today?"
"Oh," she said, "I'll have to check with my supervisor. There is a thirty dollar fee."
I looked at the crowd, then back at her. "Maybe it would be best if I can catch up with that after?" Of course, I had no interest in supporting the math regime.
"Good idea," she said. "Just make sure to stop by here on your way out." At Mercer, they think they have you over a barrel. Being the reasonable people that they are, they even feel sorry about it.
The supervisor walked me into the testing chamber, past the daughter who had stood next to me in line. She was all alone at a big table, taking the test. She had no calculator and only one pencil.
Soon the supervisor sat me down at a computer and explained the test to me. He even showed me how to find the computer's calculator.
About five minutes later, I scored into basic computation, and was skating the crowd at the front desk as if I had never been there before. I walked out the door with the same thirty dollars I had when I'd walked in.
Some might have considered this an act of stealing. I thought it was a noble gesture. I stuck it to math as best I could without being incredibly naive.
At Rutgers, I never could have made such a dent.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Flat Spots on the Wheels
I had been told by one of the conductors to stand with my Shogun in the vestibule. He said my bike was in the way, that it would fall over and tear some lady's panty hose.
My knees felt stiff and sore. I was on my way back from Jacobstown where I worked on Mike's closet. It was a ten mile ride each way and I was on my feet all day, spackling.
A conductor entered the vestibule and I already had my wallet in my hand with the ticket sticking out.
I was pretty much a robot.
I reached it to him and he plucked it out and punched it five times, very mechanically. What a waste of effort, I thought. Just tear it.
He was an old man.
"I know that bike," he said. "You were on the... this morning, at Princeton Junction, you were on the... eight forty express!" Isn't that right?"
"You have a good memory," I said.
"Eight forty, I remember that."
"Well, you have a good memory."
"I remember that bike. Shogun!" He laughed.
"It's a good bike. Is it okay here?"
Another conductor, much younger, entered the vestibule from the other direction. The old man joined him on the other side and they began to have a private conversation. It was very noisy in there, as the large steel wheels had many flat spots, which rattled against the tracks. They practically roared, but I could still hear what the conductors were talking about.
"Why do you think those black strips are on the tickets?" said the young conductor.
"Bad news. I know it."
"It's just a matter of time before they automate."
"Oh, don't I know it."
"It doesn't even matter what the union does, they don't need any of us!"
"I know, brother. I know that."
I couldn't blame them for being a little worried. I actually wished the ticket price didn't have to include extra salaries.
"This is skill!" said the young conductor. "They can't automate what we do! I'm talking about customer service!"
Now he was making me feel rather psychotic. Customer service? I thought, very skeptically. Without the conductors, I could have been sitting at that very moment.
In fact, I thought the entire world would be better off without the conductors.
"It's brutal," said the old conductor.
"What's that?"
Then somebody slammed on the breaks and I stumbled forward against the panel with all the buttons on it. I pushed some of them trying to catch myself. Orange and blue light flickered up from under the front car. Sparks, I assumed, from the wheels.
The old man made his way over my Shogun, which had also fallen. He stood over it so I couldn't pick it back up and he spoke into the radio on the wall. The train was still slowing and their screeching sounded like bats in a cave. I imagined the wheels growing bright red where they touched the tracks.
Another flat spot, probably.
He spoke into his radio again and got a response but I couldn't make out the hysterical squawking.
"Get that door open!" he said, but the young conductor just stood there, looking back and forth into the cars, probably looking at the passengers. "Get out of my way!" he said, climbing off my Shogun, finally.
He lifted a cover on the wall and stuck a key into one of the holes, opening the side door. Then he backed away and lifted up the floor panel, exposing steps.
He jumped down onto the crushed stone. "Throw that emergency break!" he said, bending over, looking under the train.
The young conductor kicked the button at the bottom of the door and it slid open. He went inside the car and used his elbow to bust the glass on the emergency break.
Now he was psychotic, practically a fascist.
He pulled down on the break. It was very quiet and the second set of break pads clicked slightly as they clamped down on the wheels.
Then he stood guard at the top of the steps, as if all of us passengers wanted to throw a prison riot.
Of course, I was still a little upset. I heard the old conductor scuffing along the stones. I pointed at the tracks between the cars. "Well they can't automate that service!" I said.
He looked at me and he looked sick, maybe disgusted. He responded by marching over to wall radio, turning it to intercom, and saying, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologize for the delay, we are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the track switch."
Fair enough, I thought. I scratched my head with both hands to calm myself down. Then I sat down against the wall, right across from a sign with the words: DO NOT RIDE IN THE VESTIBULE.
Then I realized that I wasn't sitting on my wallet and it was no longer in my hand. I must have dropped it wrestling my Shogun back into the corner. I stood up again and started hunting in the nooks and crannies.
The vestibule was a small space, so my search took about one second. "Come on!" I said.
"Calm down, boss," said the fascist.
"I can't find my wallet. I must have dropped it!" It probably fell between the cars.
"Calm down there, boss," he said. Then he bent down and picked up something from the steps. "This it?" he said, handing me my wallet. "Why don't you go find a seat, sir. We're gonna be here a while."
I found out later it wasn't a switch on the track at all, but we had run somebody over.
I snatched my wallet from his hand without saying anything.
My knees felt stiff and sore. I was on my way back from Jacobstown where I worked on Mike's closet. It was a ten mile ride each way and I was on my feet all day, spackling.
A conductor entered the vestibule and I already had my wallet in my hand with the ticket sticking out.
I was pretty much a robot.
I reached it to him and he plucked it out and punched it five times, very mechanically. What a waste of effort, I thought. Just tear it.
He was an old man.
"I know that bike," he said. "You were on the... this morning, at Princeton Junction, you were on the... eight forty express!" Isn't that right?"
"You have a good memory," I said.
"Eight forty, I remember that."
"Well, you have a good memory."
"I remember that bike. Shogun!" He laughed.
"It's a good bike. Is it okay here?"
Another conductor, much younger, entered the vestibule from the other direction. The old man joined him on the other side and they began to have a private conversation. It was very noisy in there, as the large steel wheels had many flat spots, which rattled against the tracks. They practically roared, but I could still hear what the conductors were talking about.
"Why do you think those black strips are on the tickets?" said the young conductor.
"Bad news. I know it."
"It's just a matter of time before they automate."
"Oh, don't I know it."
"It doesn't even matter what the union does, they don't need any of us!"
"I know, brother. I know that."
I couldn't blame them for being a little worried. I actually wished the ticket price didn't have to include extra salaries.
"This is skill!" said the young conductor. "They can't automate what we do! I'm talking about customer service!"
Now he was making me feel rather psychotic. Customer service? I thought, very skeptically. Without the conductors, I could have been sitting at that very moment.
In fact, I thought the entire world would be better off without the conductors.
"It's brutal," said the old conductor.
"What's that?"
Then somebody slammed on the breaks and I stumbled forward against the panel with all the buttons on it. I pushed some of them trying to catch myself. Orange and blue light flickered up from under the front car. Sparks, I assumed, from the wheels.
The old man made his way over my Shogun, which had also fallen. He stood over it so I couldn't pick it back up and he spoke into the radio on the wall. The train was still slowing and their screeching sounded like bats in a cave. I imagined the wheels growing bright red where they touched the tracks.
Another flat spot, probably.
He spoke into his radio again and got a response but I couldn't make out the hysterical squawking.
"Get that door open!" he said, but the young conductor just stood there, looking back and forth into the cars, probably looking at the passengers. "Get out of my way!" he said, climbing off my Shogun, finally.
He lifted a cover on the wall and stuck a key into one of the holes, opening the side door. Then he backed away and lifted up the floor panel, exposing steps.
He jumped down onto the crushed stone. "Throw that emergency break!" he said, bending over, looking under the train.
The young conductor kicked the button at the bottom of the door and it slid open. He went inside the car and used his elbow to bust the glass on the emergency break.
Now he was psychotic, practically a fascist.
He pulled down on the break. It was very quiet and the second set of break pads clicked slightly as they clamped down on the wheels.
Then he stood guard at the top of the steps, as if all of us passengers wanted to throw a prison riot.
Of course, I was still a little upset. I heard the old conductor scuffing along the stones. I pointed at the tracks between the cars. "Well they can't automate that service!" I said.
He looked at me and he looked sick, maybe disgusted. He responded by marching over to wall radio, turning it to intercom, and saying, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologize for the delay, we are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the track switch."
Fair enough, I thought. I scratched my head with both hands to calm myself down. Then I sat down against the wall, right across from a sign with the words: DO NOT RIDE IN THE VESTIBULE.
Then I realized that I wasn't sitting on my wallet and it was no longer in my hand. I must have dropped it wrestling my Shogun back into the corner. I stood up again and started hunting in the nooks and crannies.
The vestibule was a small space, so my search took about one second. "Come on!" I said.
"Calm down, boss," said the fascist.
"I can't find my wallet. I must have dropped it!" It probably fell between the cars.
"Calm down there, boss," he said. Then he bent down and picked up something from the steps. "This it?" he said, handing me my wallet. "Why don't you go find a seat, sir. We're gonna be here a while."
I found out later it wasn't a switch on the track at all, but we had run somebody over.
I snatched my wallet from his hand without saying anything.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
a Friend to Lean on
I rolled up in front of my favorite cafe in Hightstown, New Jersey. It looked like it was going to rain and the rusty old bike rack was far enough away from the door to really get myself drenched if things got bad. So I leaned my Shogun on the shiny new street lamp just in front of the door.
Ned, who owned the cafe, was out there too, on the sidewalk, adjusting signs or some such nonsense. "Use the bike rack, Aaron," he said. "They just painted those."
"Uh huh," I said. I felt him watching me as I did as I was told.
Then I went inside and plugged in my laptop and I felt I was being watched in there too. It was rather obvious that I was setting up to live there for quite some time. And all I bought was a cup of coffee. I would have bought less if I could have gotten away with it.
I wasn't exacting my revenge for being publicly humiliated about parking my bike on the street lamp. Not necessarily. It was a necessity thing. I still had a paper due Monday and still hadn't started it.
I needed to make sure my paper was in the way. Not just in my personal way, but a real problem for as many people as possible. I had to feel people watching me, like I was a prisoner in one of those good old-timey panopticon prisons.
If I had tried to keep it a secret and do it at home, where nobody could see me, I would have had to ask for an extension.
And then for an endless string of extensions.
Without getting in the way of a whole business, I would start down a self abusive path that could only end in academic suspension. Possibly incarceration.
Again, I needed to be watched and that need was stronger than my sense of friendship. It was also stronger than the notion that you have to buy things in order to justify your seat in a coffee shop.
After many hours, I thought I would force him to close his shop and I was okay with that. The only thing that mattered was doing my paper.
Of course, my paper was only as important as it was dangerous to his livelihood. That is to say, once I was done, I would never read it again. Probably nobody would ever read it. Not even my professor.
He made a sweep of the front, collecting empty cups as a group of teenagers left. "Refill?" he asked.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm so broke. I'm wrapping it up." That was a bold faced lie.
"I can tell you're stressed out about something," he said. "Tell you what, it's on me. Just cream, right?"
I was still upset. "No, mostly coffee."
He laughed, which softened me a little. Ned had a rough sense of humor.
Outside it started to rain and then it really came down, just as I had feared. The street lamp became wet and it looked slippery and cold as ice. I thought you couldn't possibly lean a bike on that. It would slip right off and fall over.
The bike rack, on the other hand, was all rusty and such. It had just the right kind of friction. The kind my Shogun needed to lean on in order to stand up.
Of course I had money to pay for my refill, so I walked up to the counter as Ned poured. I put my last two dollars into the tips jar. "Look what I found."
Ned, who owned the cafe, was out there too, on the sidewalk, adjusting signs or some such nonsense. "Use the bike rack, Aaron," he said. "They just painted those."
"Uh huh," I said. I felt him watching me as I did as I was told.
Then I went inside and plugged in my laptop and I felt I was being watched in there too. It was rather obvious that I was setting up to live there for quite some time. And all I bought was a cup of coffee. I would have bought less if I could have gotten away with it.
I wasn't exacting my revenge for being publicly humiliated about parking my bike on the street lamp. Not necessarily. It was a necessity thing. I still had a paper due Monday and still hadn't started it.
I needed to make sure my paper was in the way. Not just in my personal way, but a real problem for as many people as possible. I had to feel people watching me, like I was a prisoner in one of those good old-timey panopticon prisons.
If I had tried to keep it a secret and do it at home, where nobody could see me, I would have had to ask for an extension.
And then for an endless string of extensions.
Without getting in the way of a whole business, I would start down a self abusive path that could only end in academic suspension. Possibly incarceration.
Again, I needed to be watched and that need was stronger than my sense of friendship. It was also stronger than the notion that you have to buy things in order to justify your seat in a coffee shop.
After many hours, I thought I would force him to close his shop and I was okay with that. The only thing that mattered was doing my paper.
Of course, my paper was only as important as it was dangerous to his livelihood. That is to say, once I was done, I would never read it again. Probably nobody would ever read it. Not even my professor.
He made a sweep of the front, collecting empty cups as a group of teenagers left. "Refill?" he asked.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm so broke. I'm wrapping it up." That was a bold faced lie.
"I can tell you're stressed out about something," he said. "Tell you what, it's on me. Just cream, right?"
I was still upset. "No, mostly coffee."
He laughed, which softened me a little. Ned had a rough sense of humor.
Outside it started to rain and then it really came down, just as I had feared. The street lamp became wet and it looked slippery and cold as ice. I thought you couldn't possibly lean a bike on that. It would slip right off and fall over.
The bike rack, on the other hand, was all rusty and such. It had just the right kind of friction. The kind my Shogun needed to lean on in order to stand up.
Of course I had money to pay for my refill, so I walked up to the counter as Ned poured. I put my last two dollars into the tips jar. "Look what I found."
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