Parked

My travels today found Mom and me in search for water-proof fleece, rain coats, and other camping essentials for Kevin’s end-of-year school trip. Inspired by the beautiful weather, thoughts of a pleasant drive, and absolute necessity for the items by tomorrow morning, we drove off to the local L.L. Bean store for some much needed shopping.

Now Mom and I possess two different philosophies in terms of parking our car:

My philosophy:

1. Locate the first available parking spot, preferably as far away from other vehicles.
2. Pull into spot.
3. Put car in park and remove key from ignition.
4. Hike the two miles to your destination (Frankly I need the exercise, and we all should try to walk more)

Mom’s philosophy:

1. Drive around through the maze of parked cars for the closest spot possible.
2. If you pass more than ten parked cars, you have gone too far.
3. If no parking spots are available, continue circling the parking lot like vultures until someone leaves.
4. Upon finding a spot extremely close in proximity to your destination, pull in.
5. Put car in park DO NOT TURN OFF IGNITION
6. Look about you and wait twenty minutes, if you see anyone pulling out of a parking spot closer to the mall, quickly leave the secured spot and jump to the closer one.
7. Repeat until parked adjacent to handicapped spots. Then if the mall is not closed, shop.

Honestly — with only a little exaggeration — Mom loves to capture that “close” spot. It’s the competitive streak in her, that blood-thirsty Celtic-warrior stare that melds onto her face whenever we play volleyball or softball. Hours before video game screens have uncovered the battle-lust in my genes as well (particularly at Mario Kart and Tekken). Losing to Dasad’s Ryu in Street Fighter, usually prompts hours of intense training afterwards and a few hurried matches with my younger less battle-hardened cousins. The fact that few of them have played the game before or even know what buttons to push, bite, or gum is inconsequential at this point. I simply need the victory, the knockout, that cybernetic affirmation that I am still a man.

Yet when it comes to parking, I simply do not possess my mother’s patience. No sooner would I pull into a parking spot ten rows from the entrance to Nordstroms, then a Honda begins pulling out several rows ahead and Mom would shoot me that expectant disappointed look, suggesting “We could have parked closer if we hadn’t rushed.” Yes and we could, losing gas and shopping time in the process. However I do not say this. One thing I have learned in all my years of parking and gaming, sometimes the best victory demands a timely retreat. And no dishonor can be found in yielding to the chidings of your mother from time to time. Indeed it is good for them to vent now and again.  Our two miles walks to the mall are rarely silent.

“Ooh . . . Murph, honey, you missed that spot. If I sat down here so that no other cars could enter, and you ran back to the car . . .”

“Come on, Mom . . .” I sigh, promising to grab myself and her a large mall-bought fruitshake before the afternoon ends. After all we need something to sustain us for the long hike back to the car . . .

Story Sickness

Presently I am recovering from particularly viral strain of “story sickness.” At least, that is the name I give to it, that passionate “fevered” desire to complete a particularly imaginative or well-told tale, and the effects are not pretty. The story envelops me. I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. I relinquish all work – as well as most conscious thought – as I devour page after page or scene after scene, driven to discover “What happens next?” Does the Count exact his revenge? Does Taran save his friends from the Black Cauldron? If Nia transforms into an intergalactic harbinger of death and destruction, how will she and Simone ever be together? Stuff like that.

I recall one night several years ago, when my Dad knocked on my door sometime around one or two in the morning. Both of my parents had not seen me for much of the evening. I had disappeared to my room right after inhaling some steak and potatoes and rapidly spitting out a garbled “One moment, Mom. Room with flying keys! Gotta go!” Relinquishing them to this cryptic phrase and some small tuffs of fallen potatoes, I scampered down to my room without a sound.

Worried at my unusual absence, the late hours, and whether I was alive or dead – being the good parents that they are – they decided to check on me. So spying the light creeping beneath my door past midnight, Dad decided to investigate. I, of course, had been reading all day. Recently, you see, my brother Ryan had received the fourth Harry Potter book, and taking an interest in the hype I opened the Sorcerer’s Stone that afternoon . . .

“Are you still up? What are doing in here?”

“Learning magic.” (I cannot recall exactly what I said here, but it was something to this effect. I possess little shame.)

“A book? You’re reading a book at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Yeah, Dad, this book is incredible! The storytelling is fantastic. It just pulled me in almost as soon as I began.”

“Well, remember not to burn the candle at both ends. In a few hours, it will be dawn, and you have to take the kids to school tomorrow. You can always finish tomorrow, you know.”

“I know. I know. But I’m almost finished this second book. It’s so hard to put down. I’ll go to sleep soon. I promise.”

Shortly after that, Hogwarts safe once more and basilisk slain, the second book ended, and I lay on the bed exhausted. With a flip of a switch the Walmart-bought fan twirls and cools my head, steaming with potential ideas for Harry’s later chronicles. Will Voldemort return? What is his connection with Harry? Will Ron always be the comic relief?

“I wonder if Harry fancies Ginny or Hermione?” I think aloud. A few minutes later, I break my promise and leaf through the third book until five or six in the morning. I fall asleep for an hour or two, waking exhausted somewhere between pages one-hundred twenty-eight and twenty-nine. The pages peel from my drool-dampened cheeks and ears. Like a wino with a hangover, I curse at the sun, shining brightly through my windows and stumble off to find Sean and my car keys. I – safely – drive my brothers across town to summer swimming practice, where I then waited in the parking lot, my mind passing into slumber and dreams: detailed visions of wizards, castles, and werewolves.

Such is the nature of my affliction, my “story sickness.” Considering the number of stories I finish each year, few provoke such unhealthy responses. Typically coming-of-age tales empowered with dynamic characters, heroic battles, or the search for true love incites the germ (at heart I am a hopeless romantic). Combine these elements with incredible writing or poetic prose, and the infection spreads. The story consumes me, and for hours or days later I am lost within another world among friends, both old and new. The story sickness strikes once again.

Of course, others may know of a more clinical term – insanity perhaps. My siblings simply tell their friends that their older brother is weird and a little eccentric at times, citing the T-shirt wisdom: “He lives in his own little world, but it’s okay they know him there.” I have heard the word “obsessed” too, somewhere in the din as I sat reading Verne and Doyle long ago. I cannot remember when or where. Growing up in a family of ten, you learn to cloud much of the daily cacophony, especially when there are lands to explore and ghost hounds to unmask.

Frankly, I have just learned to accept the fact that stories are a natural part of my life. A natural inclination like the love of seashores or ice cream. It is akin to breathing. Inhale and exhale. Read and write. The only difficulty lies in choosing between the two:

It’s hard to know when to respond to the seductiveness of the world and when to respond to its challenges. If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn by the twin desires to reform the world and to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day. – E. B. White

Willy willy pumpkin-nilly

I was working late one afternoon at the lab years ago, when this poem popped into my head. The day had grown long; five hours can drag waiting to harvest protein. Boredom, acetone, and smell of fresh bacterial broth can have a strange effect on the mind, particularly one driven to childish rhyme. Like a true Seuss-stanza, dislodging the simple echoed rhythm from my ears proved nigh near impossible. Drugs, flames, liquid nitrogen all proved futile. Thus rather than ignore more safety restrictions, I decided to write the poem down and share it with others instead . . .

Willy willy pumpkin-nilly
What a great fool you are
Willy willy pumpkin-nilly
What a total fool you are

You dance on your hands
And eat with your feet
You bray just like a dog
And mew for your treat.

Willy willy pumpkin-nilly
What an honest fool you are

You bathe in the sink
Throwin’ money away
Like a child, a wee child
Sleeping, smiling, at play.

Willy willy pumpkin-nilly
What a good fool you are.

You mix with the sick
And converse with the cursed
Always wishin’ on stars
Always putting others first.

Willy willy pumpkin-nilly
What a good man you are.

You never speak rude
Foolish simpleton I see.
Yet kind, loyal and true
Knowing just who you can be

Willy willy pumpkin-nilly
What a great man you are.

Guy Talk: Part 2

Ryan and I are driving south this weekend to visit his . . . uh, platonic female friend and her equally platonic girlfriends for dating evaluations. If he manages to pass, he gains the title of boyfriend and man. If not, we eat eighty dollars in gas money, snacks, and tissues. Either way, it should be an amazing trip. Sun or storm, no place on land captures the savage beauty quite like the seashore. Waves crashing and breaking against rocks, liquid thunder, the pulsating heartbeat of a vast monster, an ageless world without remorse . . .

“Hold the lengthy metaphors for a moment. Tissues? Are you suggesting that I might cry?” Ryan cries out from behind the steering wheel.

“How did you read . . .? I turned the screen away from you! And the windows were down! How do you read my story without a reflection?”

The laptop sat on my legs facing the open passenger window of Ryan’s Yukon. Currently we rolled along several hundred feet above the water overlooking a vast gray inlet, marked with waterfront housing and tiny fishing boats, which bobbed up and down like corks in the murky water. Very inspiring perspective, if not for the constant commentary.

“Side mirror reflection,” he answered. “You think that I’m going to get sob-y or something?”

“Well, Mr. Sensitive, you do drop tears from time to time,” I reminded him, not bothering to mention again the dangers of simultaneous reading and driving. My words lacked any and all strength, like the advice of a hypocrite. “Remember Rudy? Miracle? Pride and Prejudice?”

“Uh uh, no way. Pride and Prejudice was YOUR big cry, you girl.” True.

“It’s an excellent book.” This is also true.

“Except when you continue to spout about how great frickin’ Elizabeth is,” Ryan shouts. “The girl would torment any man for the rest of his life.”

True again, but in my experience only mutual indifference really poisons love; while ironically aggravation often masks true affection. Darcy, I imagine, is very brave man but never an unhappy one.

“Hey look, you have your pseudo-girlfriend,” I retaliated. “Leave me to my imaginary ones.”

“Oh and Mr. Darcy. Wasn’t he dreamy? Together with Lizzie . . . ahhhh. Sheesh, frickin’ psychos are made for one another.”

“Dude, Darcy is the flippin’ man! One of the world great romantic leads in Brit Lit. And Lizzie . . . well, you start bad mouthin’ Lizzie again and I’ll kill you.”

Ironically enough, these remarks typifies the type of conversations that usually erupt when Ryan and I talk. On occasion we have been known to argue over the effect of Huxley’s Soma, the motivation of Bradbury’s firemen, and why Batman is vastly superior to Superman (he still cannot accept this unassailable fact).

“I don’t even know why you like her in the first place,” Ryan asserted. “Jane’s the hotty. Right or left, here?”

“Left and then straight for about twenty miles,” I answered. The roads here now dappled with light rain, ‘cat-spit’ my old professor termed it, reminds me of the river or inlet we passed over moments before: dark, silent, and impervious.

“Jane’s sweet but silent,” I continued. “It’s like marrying a frickin’ mannequin . . .”

“Kim Cattrall was hot in that movie.”

“Agreed but again all smiles. No laughter. No wit. No soul.”

“Again with the wit?!” Ryan sighed. “If my future sister-in-law talks like a Shakespearean player, our family dinners will be very quiet and sparse. No one but you will be able to understand her.”

“You confuse wit with learning Russian,” I responded.

“Well, as long as she likes you and the family, we’ll have no problem, ok?”

“I would not favor her otherwise.”

“Oh and cute. If I cannot understand her, she may as well be easy on the eyes, as I stare dumbfounded . . . hey you hungry?”

The answer was an unequivocal “Yes” and so we drove through KFC for some chicken wraps and sandwiches. We parked, and Ryan dove into his chicken sandwich, slurped down a chocolate shake, and now finished he began rubbing his index fingers across his nipples. This frankly disturbed me in ways I cannot possibly describe and I choked back nausea.

“What by the power of Greyskull are you doing?”

“Summer is coming soon,” Ryan responded still rubbing his chest. “I want to wear a tight Speedo shirt to the beach, but I don’t want saggy flaccid nipples. If I rub them now and then, they get a little perky . . . and well, that shows through the shirt.”

I tossed the remainder of my wrap in the bag, and closed my eyes before telling Ryan to drive. Within a few minutes the engine roars to life, but for some moments we remain parked. Even over the roar of the engine, I heard the rubbing whoosh of his fingers against his shirt. I choked back my wrap and try in vain to fall asleep.

An hour later of fitful disturbing nipply-dreams, I woke to the riffs of AC/DC and Ryan’s warbled singing. As soon as I rubbed my eyes, he began banging out beats on the dashboard.

“It’s a long way to the top if you’re gonna Rock N’ ROoool . . .” Boom badaba boom. Boom badaba boom.

“Are we done touching ourselves?”

“Huh? Oh yeah,” he shouted over the radio. “All done for now. I do this once a day, by vacation time my nipples will be ready for all the world to see.”

“Please, your words are wrecking havoc on my imagination. I dreamt of exploring Egyptian tombs with Jessica Alba . . .”

“So, that doesn’t sound too bad,” Ryan said turning down the radio as the song faded.

“All the pyramids had nippled apexes, and your face was carved into  the sphinx. Its paws were folded across its chest doing . . . God knows what.”

Ryan apparently found this quite amusing. “So what?” he laughed, “I’d thought you’d be used to weird stuff like that. With all the Japanese porn you watch.”

“Anime,” I corrected him. “It’s called anime.”

EXPLANATION: Years ago, right out of college, my interest in sci-fi and fantasy stories led me to Japanese animation or anime, movies like Metropolis and Akira which through complex characterization and bewildering imagery seemed to treat animation as a means to tell an epic tale and not just a child’s diversion. My interest grew in the medium, and so the following Christmas, I received several volumes of manga or Japanese comics, specifically romantic comedies like Love Hina, which although not vulgar sometimes lacked the . . . er, modesty of American comics. My vehement explanations about character, story, and art had about as much effect as discussing the literary content of Playboy articles.

“Whatever, you and your animated girls. Your imaginary girlfriends. That’s weird man.”

“Not all of my loves have been animated,” I responded. “Besides Miss Elizabeth Bennet, back in college, I had the biggest crush on Clarisse McClennen and Cecelia Jupe.”

“From Farenheit 451?”

“And Dickens’ Hard Times . . .”

“You need to put down the books and get yourself a girl, dude.”

Sigh. “I need a girl.” The words seemed to sink into me: an answer without a solution. The way Ryan said it you would think I could simply walk into Walmart and find the love of my life sitting upon a shelf next to indoor fans and lighting fixtures. Marked down, too! Yet in Ryan himself I found solace.

“The way I figure it, though,” I said. “If you can find a girl who accepts your nip . . . nipple . . . gosh I cannot even say it. Your oddities. There must be someone who understands mine, right?”

“The world is a large place, man! There’s sure to be another cartoon freak like you somewhere in this morass of insanity, delusions, and phobias, right?”

“Well said,” I answered enthusiastically. “Although I suspect that the real motive behind that little speech was just so you could say . . .”

“Morass? Yup. Mom never quite got over that vocab word.”

“I’m feeling more hopeful by the minute,” I said as we neared the college. The waters of the inlet licked at the beach, bordering the school. The far off shores seemed like islands in the fog, remote and foreign toppled with evergreens and flowering trees full in bloom. A small dock hugged several small sailboats, where students readied ships to sail off into gray abyss.

“. . . long way to the top, if you wanna Rock N ROOLLLLL.” Boom badaba Boom!

Guy Talk: Part 1

On the way down the road, I take out my laptop and begin writing:

Ryan and I are driving down south this weekend to visit Ryan’s girlfriend at the eastern shore, where she currently resides until classes end in a few weeks. I know very little about her college; although I hear that the scenery overlooking a small inlet to the bay simply takes your breath away. Ryan’s girl studies environmental scien . . .

“Dude, she’s not my girlfriend,” Ryan interrupts from behind the steering wheel.

I look up. “Huh? What?”

“This girl, I’m seein.’ She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Well, you’ve been calling her for hours each night all semester long. In some countries, these long-distance phone bills are considered a legally binding marriage contract. Hold on . . . how are you even reading this?”

“I glance over now and then when no other cars are around,” he says, weaving the car slightly between the yellow and white lines. “Oh and that’s what she told me yesterday on the phone. She thinks it’s too early to consider us girlfriend and boyfriend, that’s all.”

“Oh . . .” I say.  Ryan remains uncharacteristically quiet for some time after that.  I assume that he is trying to translate the feminine “too early to consider us girlfriend and boyfriend” into guy-speak, which reduces the situation into two possibilities:  Is this good?  Or is this bad?

“Also,” he finally says, “she’s studying biology, not environmental science.  You might want to fix that in your story.”

“I did not even finish writing that yet! If you cannot keep your eyes on the road, let me drive! Reading and driving do not mix very well.” I of course spoke from personal experience on this one. One August two or three years ago, I attempted to dodge traffic while glancing through Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  This experiment nearly launched me off the interstate. Thank goodness for stop signs and red traffic lights.

“No I’m fine. And it’s not that she doesn’t like me. She says that she likes me. She invited me down so that her girlfriends could meet me.”

“Yeah, but meet who?” I interject.

“What do you mean? They’re meeting me, right? I suppose they could meet you too, if you’d like, as long as you don’t do anything weird . . .”

“Wait, weird stuff? What weird stuff?” I scoff. “At all times, I am a paragon of normalcy.”

“You bow, dude. Or you say stuff like ‘Good evening, m’lady.’ Medieval crap like that. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s chivalrous,” I remind him. “Besides I don’t make a show of it, just a slight bow of the head upon meeting. ‘M’lady’is just a saying of mine. It simply sounds better than ‘ma’am’ or ‘miss.’ More poetic, don’t you think?”

“Whatever, but if you embarrass me, I’ll punt you into the bay.”

“Slow down, man. Speed trap up ahead.” Ryan is still quite new at this game. His attention span fluctuates at times particularly in the midst of conversation or a “truly awesome” song. Led Zepplin’s “Fool in the Rain” mere moments prior sent us careening into a small embankment, bordering a pottery farm. I was nearly skewered by a lawn gnome. We pass the cop, nestled behind a grove of small trees. Ryan drops ten mph in practically seconds.

“Gradual deceleration, man!”

“Okay! Okay!” We resume normal speeds (i.e. match the speed of other drivers), and I breathe a little easier. No lights. No cop.

“What were you saying before?” Ryan asks. His attention to my meaningless commentary belies his interest in this girl.

“What does she call you? How are you introduced? Are you, ‘This is my best buddy, Ryan’ or “My pen pal, Ryan?’ ‘Just this guy I know?’ If you’re not her boyfriend, then what are you? If you are not her boyfriend, why are we wasting eighty dollars in gas to visit her?!”

“I don’t know . . . I just want to see her, I guess. I want to be her boyfriend. I suppose that this is just one of the hurdles in the dating gauntlet, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” What other answer is there? “Well, here let me change this paragraph then . . .”

Ryan and I are driving south this weekend to visit his . . . uh, platonic female friend and her equally platonic girlfriends for dating evaluations. If he manages to pass, he gains the title of boyfriend and man. If not, we eat eighty dollars in gas money, snacks, and tissues. Either way, it should be an amazing trip. Sun or storm, no place on land captures the savage beauty quite like the seashore. Waves crashing and breaking against rocks, liquid thunder, the pulsating heartbeat of a vast monster, an ageless world without remorse or light . . .

Clouds the light of the love that I found . . .

Dial a Doctor: The Finale

I have been asked if Nancy the doctor/nurse ever got in touch with Dad.  The answer remains shrouded in mystery as Dad eventually talked to someone at the hospital, but cannot remember whom.  Considering that she called twice at the house and Dad’s surgery has come and gone, I will assume that she has descended on other patients now.  Yet still, not satisfied with an incomplete story, I offer you the following suggestion of the events pertaining to the morning of April 26th:

“Mike, you have a telephone call on line one,” Dad’s secretary buzzed over the intercom. “A nurse or doctor from the hospital concerning Monday’s surgery. Hurry, she sounds impatient.”

Dad pealed his eyes from the conference table, where blueprints lay unfolded like a buccaneer’s treasure map. Terri sounded worried . . . no scared. Terri who dealt daily with men the size of Mack trucks. Terri who shrugged off the daily phone complaints and ravings of contractors, customers, and crazies. Bulldog Terri who office rumor speculated with rather inspired imagination had bitten an angry pit bull that dared to growl while crossing her path. Terri who . . . ah, but Dad had wasted enough time on analysis. The phone itself would solve this puzzle.

“Yes, how may I help you?” he spoke brusquely, a man of business whose time was counted not by dollars or cents but by percentages.

“Am I speaking to Mike, who on April 28, this Monday, will undergo surgery at the hospital?”

“Yes, I’m having a filter removed with Dr. Wein . . .”

“Sir, do you know that I called twice before now?” The voice sounded accusatory now, like a television cop or the school principal who finally catches Ferris Bueller skipping school.

“Uh, yes ma’am, I do,” Dad said, somewhat taken aback. “I talked to Karen at the hospital earlier and she told . . .”

“Sir, Karen is a cow. She should have directed you to me, to Nancy. But due to mass incompetence, we must have this conversation today. Merely hours before your operation.”

“Um, ma’am the operation is Monday. A day and half away . . .”

“Do not take any prescription drugs twelve hours before the operation . . .” Her voice drills into Dad’s ear with a list of instructions both dietary and practical. After some time, he tries – in vain – to halt her soliloquy.

“Yes, I heard all this from Karen, ma’am.”

“Karen does not have the proper information. Now do you know that as a diabetic, you should not . . .”

“Eat or drink anything twelve hours before the operation. Go to bed early and be ready to remain home from the rest of the day due to the local anesthesia. Yes, we’ve been over this before ma’am.”

“Also do not take aspirin either . . .”

“I do not take aspirin. My doctor has forbidden me to use it, something about the diabetes . . .”

“Good, but I had to mention it.” Again her words cut through Dad’s normally charming dialogue, like a goat crushing old tin cans. “Hospital policy and all. Heaven knows how many idiots breed in this world. My job ironically is to make them better, healthy, and whole so they can continue breeding. How asinine is that, I ask you?”

“Um . . . are we done here?”

“Yes,” she sighs, mumbling something which Dad cannot hear, but which sounded faintly like “stupid breeders.” He nonetheless decides on courtesy, issues a polite goodbye before returning to his prints. Nancy, true to form, desires no such chivalry.

“Well, hon, thank you for calling. Have a great . . .”

Click.

“ . . . day.”

Dial a Doctor: Part 2

Nancy’s voice sounded petulant and angry this time, like a small child who found another occupying her favorite seat. My Mom had answered the phone this time, while I spent my day off sitting at overly small desks during Grandparents and Special Friends at Kevin’s school (Essentially I followed my little brother through his normal morning routine, listening to lessons in class, evaluating his progress, and introducing myself to his cute single teachers — and unsuccessfully concealing my innate aura of desperation.).

Again the phone rang during lunch. “Hello,” Mom said.

“Yes, I am calling from the hospital. Is your husband available?” Mom answered no, that he was still at work but would be home at . . .

“I asked him to call me yesterday before four. I made that clear. Yet he did not call me. Now I have to call again today.”

Mom of course has no response for this obvious fact. She informs Nancy that we had called Dad concerning the message and gave him her phone number. To Mom’s knowledge, Dad had indeed talked to someone at the hospital. Who, she could not be sure, but he was aware of his medical restrictions before the surgery.

“Hmph . . . well, he did not talk to me. Be sure that he calls me before four this afternoon.”

“Oh, well, alright. Good . . .”

Click

” . . . bye.”

Save Me

Yesterday’s conversation with Dad’s doctor recalled a short email that I dispersed last summer after a particularly trying experience with Food Lion’s club card. It is a little dated — I have since bought into the bonus card — not to mention vitriolic, but I thought that it might interest some of you, who like me become exhausted with gimmick:

I believe the check-out lady at the local Food Lion hates me. Or at least, loathes my continued existence in her store. Samuel Johnson once wrote that the failure of most human relationships is the accumulation of insults and fractures too minor to mention and too numerous to ignore. Such is the marketing principle of these supermarket bonus cards: to slowly accumulate wealth. Yet the constant badgering and store-inflicted guilt too can accumulate, like a cancer, into a stubborn refusal to buy into the card at all, to willfully lose money.

Such is the case here.

Like most markets today, Food Lion offers a member-oriented bonus card, which offers the cardholder additional savings on groceries and free coupons for bizarre items like Chow Mein Noodles and vegetarian TV dinners. Once Mom gave me her card to buy six galleons of milk, a dozen eggs, and a pound of bacon. Upon checkout, the discount card earned me three coupons for Tampons. I refuse to sign up for the card; although, on occasion, I borrow Mom’s for large purchases (in a family of ten that occurs once a week). Typically during these rare moments, I only save about four bucks, ten at the most for a hundred dollar purchase. The check-out lady hates the fact that I could care less about the lost pocket change.

Whenever she asks for my card and I respond with a smile that I have left it at home, I am sure to look down so I cannot watch her shake her head. I do hear the sharp click of her tongue though. Clearly she disapproves of my attitude. An overly exasperated sigh follows, before I hear the beep of scanned cereal. Sometimes, the cashier’s pained voice will whine out to those standing behind me:

“Excuse me ma’am, do you have your card to scan? This gentleman cannot save without his card.”

She scans my neighbor’s card and begins packing my groceries into bags. I stand still like the fool in the corner who forgot his times tables. Purchasing fifty dollars worth of groceries earn me two dollars back and a coupon for cigarettes. I do not smoke.

“Don’t you like savings?” she asks.

Sure, I consider. I enjoy lollipops too, but I don’t think I’ll jump into traffic just to swap a freebie at the doctor’s office. I do not say this. Simply put, the prospect of playing this asinine game, when the savings could be granted to everyone with or without a card, prompts me to sacrifice several dollars a week just to annoy her.

I leave the store irritated, reminding myself to avoid her station next week. Though I know this will not happen, we somehow are drawn to one another like opposing charges: she sees a potential client while all I spy is another marketing trap, another ubiquitous plastic card to tack onto my keychain, another member of the nameless rabble who shop there.

Yet that’s the thing that troubles me the most: the total insignificance of the stupid card. With most of the cashiers — other than her — they station a manager’s card at the check-out so when some card-less shmuck like myself buys groceries, we can procure a few extra bucks. If the manger’s card cannot be found, they ask the next person in-line if they could swipe their card — usually without the guilt. Therefore, on any other day when the food-store fascist is absent, anyone regardless of race, creed, or key-chain can save a few extra bucks on bananas, bagels, and band-aids.

Or if they ever allow us to input our phone-number code, I’ll staple my phone number above the register, thus triggering such a massive influx of savings that Food Lion will crumble within a few years and I will have to drive an additional five minutes to a store with more amiable grocers. Although with the rising price of gas, it is lose-lose either way.

Dial a Doctor

The phone rang sometime during lunch, immediately after I had taken my first bite of a delicious egg and mustard sandwich. My mouth now full of egg, ham, and bread, I answer with garbled “Hewoo?”

The voice on the other end sounded stern, impatient, and quick like a German headmistress or someone who used words like “fiddle faddle.”  She was calling from the hospital.  “Is your father available?”

I choked down the bolus of chewed bread and protein, coughing out a semi-audible “No, no he isn’t.  May I . . .” before she interrupts.

“Can I leave a number?”

“Sure,” I say grabbing at a floret of pencils which in my haste spill out onto the floor (I may have cursed.).  An audible impatience sighs across the line.  I grab at an old notebook.  “Whenever you’re ready . . .”

Nancy — that I learn is her name — hurriedly fires off ten numbers and informs me that she will be “here” (I assume an office at the hospital) until four.

“Oh,” I stammer, “May I ask what this call is regarding.”  Now I think this a prudent question; although I know that Dad is scheduled for some minor surgery this Monday.  In fact, he asked me to drive him to and from the hospital.  However, I also realize that the time of his appointed surgery may been moved in the past, so knowing that this message concerned Monday’s visit — as oppose to the surgery several weeks ago – would be important.

“I am calling from the hospital,” she answers, stressing the word hospital as if it was sufficient explanation for anyone.

“Oh, ok . . .” I burble, wondering if I had inadvertently attempted to violate some patient/doctor confidentiality  and got caught in the process.  “Thank . . .”

Click.

“. . . you.”

Biblio-fool

Short post today. After the past few weeks of – for lack of a better word – ineffective writing, I wanted to return to some old content and style. In other words, include the same nonsense; leave out the confusing rambles.

My journeys carried me to Borders today in search of a birthday book for my young cousin. A dangerous enterprise on the best of days (a perfect example of which welcomed us today with warm breezy weather, cloud-less skies, and no classes), bookstores always threaten to consume my wallet, the sacrificial lamb for my bibliophilia. For instance, no sooner did I find the perfect gift, Olivia by Ian Falconer, than my eyes wandered to the other picture books on the shelves. I considered additional gifts for my cousin such as Where the Wild Things Are or a book of poems maybe something by Shel Silverstein, the seeds of a childhood library and fantastic books for young readers (and adults alike). My hands tickled like a thief fingering his hoard, until my conscience – the prude – checked my actions. Originally, I set my price limit to fifteen bucks, and so conceding to the anxious groans emanating from my wallet, I returned the additional books to the shelves and sighed. On my way out of the stacks, a (cute) female employee stacking books nearby must have seen me and asked if I required any help. Anxiety must have stamped its mark on my face, and I wonder now if she saw me as a potential pervert, this twenty-something guy hovering and mumbling to myself in the children’s section.

Politely I declined and shuffled off with my – *sigh* sole – book, only occasionally glancing back at her slender figure (I am human after all.). Now at this point, I should have adjusted my blinders and made a beeline to the check-out counter; however, my inner voice of reason, momentarily distracted with its minor victory, allowed me to browse. I wandered through the young adult section for the latest Crispin novel by Avi. Irritated at not finding it, my frustration coerced me through the maze of Self-help and Gardening sections to the manga, where I picked up two new volumes (Spiral and School Rumble, in case your interested). This satiated my urge some, but now I required absolution from my geek guilt (Definition geek guilt: noun. That worried feeling of approaching the check-out counter with an armful of clearly odd, unusual (i.e. geeky) merchandise in public). Subsequently, I picked out two books on short-story writing for buffering, paid, and left . . . . after stopping at the nearby coffee stand for a refill on refreshments.

In summary, I ended up leaving having paid for five books and only – thankfully – two iced teas (Seattle’s Best Coffee constructs the best coffee milkshakes on the planet with real ice cream, no less; the ecstasy is almost too good to withstand.). Such is the nature of my bibliophilia. In my defense, the stories simply call out to me. Louder and with more brilliance than even the smoothest coffee milkshake or story-time Siren could ever sing . . . although in truth it is a lonely addiction. Maybe next time, I might invite the beautiful bookseller out for coffee. I might just amass the courage, unless of course I spy that Crispin novel first. Courage may embody the foundation of romance, but man cannot purchase coffee with an empty wallet. Perhaps we can muster a rousing conversation over cream and sugar packets . . .

“Courage, determination, and hard work are all very nice, but not so nice as an oil well in the back yard.” – Cooley Mason