Saturday October 13 2012


☼ ○ ▬

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.


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.”


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.

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