[i]☼ ○ ▬
I’m about to get on a plane...but I have to go through
customs first. It’s not a normal customs station; it seems to be just one lady
behind a counter handling everything. She asks me what I am bringing onboard. I
only have a plastic bag full of snacks and a copy of The Fuck-Up by
Arthur Nersesian in my possession. For some reason she’s required to label my
book with a sticker that says its been checked, but by God it’s taking her
forever to sign all these documents. Meanwhile the line is growing with
impatient people. I hear an announcement through the PA speakers warning
everyone the first plane is already leaving. Great. So now I have to
wait for the next plane. Anxiety.
▬ ○ ☼
Alarm goes off at 11:05 a.m.
Strawberry Pastries. Orange Juice.
All day shift at China Wok.
Plum.
Delivering an order to an old-ish black lady with an obvious
wig on Queens Way. She never fails to order; I mean I deliver to her regularly.
It’s a definite two-dollar tip every time and the transaction is usually quick.
But this time when she answers the door I’m shown an interesting new side to
her that I did not expect, especially in this kind of neighborhood. She says to
me, “Can you pick up that trash out there for me?” I look around but don’t see
anything. “It’s by the curb,” she explains. I still can’t see what she’s
talking about. She keeps trying to direct my vision. I search and search with
my eyes for anything out of the ordinary but still nothing. Finally she follows
me to the spot and there it is, a tiny green and white straw wrapper crumpled
up in between the walkway and the grass. I would’ve never found this to save my
life. It’s almost camouflaged. I pick it up obediently and she thanks me. I
never would’ve guessed her to be OCD. I mean it’s a frickin straw wrapper!
Poor woman. I understand the concept of wanting perfection but that
seems ridiculous. People are strange.
Business is slow for an afternoon. Reading The Catcher in
the Rye. Chapter 17 has become my favorite chapter so far. I identify with
its theme, the observations Holden has. It reminds me how much idealism rules
my life and how sometimes I always sound like I mean things when I say them but
actually don’t. It’s a lousy character flaw.
Two Hard Boiled Eggs. Five Guys French Fries. Honey Green
Tea.
Delivering an order to a small apartment complex off Fremac.
A young black man answers the door. Right off the bat I realize he’s a
comedian.
Comedian: “You’re not the typical Chinese delivery guy are
you?”
Me: “I’m not Chinese, no.”
The food isn’t for him. I realize this when he shouts to the
back, “The delivery guy says you need to hurry! He’s got other deliveries to
make. And he’s on his bicycle with the little basket and all.”
Right. Cute. You’re a funny dude. I play along and
add, “He’s right!”
A fairly attractive black girl comes to the door and we make
the transaction. I smell a stiff after I give her the change.
Comedian: “See! He even did the math in his head. He prolly
graduate from Harvard or sumin. What school you graduate frum?”
Me: “School of Hard Knocks of course.”
[Ha-ha-ha]
The day continues into the night.
Belgian Milk Chocolate Bar. Banana.
The last hour, as usual, pipes down. Enjoying an early
dinner: Hot and Sour Soup. Broccoli and Rice.
Back home and off work.
Settling my mind. Decompressing with a few bowls of Cinnamon
Toast Crunch.
Watching Act of Valor (2012).
Sleep 4 a.m.
[i] Lia Melia.
No comments:
Post a Comment