Thursday, November 19, 2009

This Afternoon's Minor Distraction

I'm standing there, absently wiping the green counter top and staring out the window, wondering about what it would be like if I really did get this job that I applied for. Because I want it--I want it real bad. I'm thinking about what it would be like to have a job where advancement was a possibility. I'm thinking about what it would be like to have one of those jobs that I wasn't kind of embarrassed of. And in the middle of the daydreaming, a man approaches me.

He came in on a mission. He didn't look at the menu, he deflected my offer for fudge. He looked straight at me and leaned his arms on the glass counter top. I pointed at the sign that said not to lean, he read it but didn't get up. I think maybe he didn't realize that's what he was doing. "I'm on a fishing trip--of sorts." I surveyed his scene. He sort of looked like he might be going fishing, it was only forty degrees outside though and I couldn't imagine that would be all that much fun. He wore a short sleeved plaid shirt with long underwear underneath, he had grey whiskers and hair that looked like it was nice when he left the house but by mid-afternoon, it was completely out of its initial place.

"Oh, alright," I said, looking at him with marginal suspicion. "Do you want a sandwich or something?"
"Fifteen years ago I was walking behind the stores along this block. There was this gorgeous pickup truck, it was painted bright yellow and there was the most beautiful music playing from it."
"Okay." I smiled, anxious to hear where he was going with this and pleased that he didn't need me to wash my hands and stuff them into plastic lunch-lady gloves.
He smiled back at me and squinted his eyes in resignation.
"But I suppose you don't know anything about fifteen years ago."
"No, sir. I'm sorry. I was... eleven, fifteen years ago."
"Oh." He sounded disappointed and surveyed the scene.
"But, you know, next door there's a florist. He's much older than me, his name is Bob and he wears Hawaiian shirts. He's been here for years and years. I'd say that if anyone knows anything about that, it'd be Bob."
"Bob, you say? Right next door?"
"To your left."
"Thank'y ma'am." He tipped his invisible hat. Kind of a Jimmy Stewart move, on his part.

About six minutes later, I saw him leave the florist and walk across the street, get in his own pickup truck and leave. This didn't surprise me. He had very little to go on.

And here it is, seven hours later and I can't get it out of my head. What the hell was that about?

No comments:

Post a Comment