Waiting

Waiting. I think of my life now as waiting for something to happen. Waiting for some opportunity to come along. I feel very much like I am passing the time, waiting for something important.

When I was little, I spent a lot of time waiting. We didn’t have a car and my mother would coordinate these complicated bus passages around town, sometimes with one or two hours wait between transfers to some unheard of suburb. I didn’t understand – and still sometimes don’t – why we would go to the trouble, just for some half-hour rehearsal segment for choir or two-bit dance recital in a mall no one ever went to. Maybe she was bored.

But I remember waiting. Waiting for the last bus on summer nights or worse – on winter nights, when the cold was so fierce that I would lose sensation in my toes. It’s very real to me – I can close my eyes and see snowflakes swirling down about me in the glow of streetlights and my humid breath condensing into droplets on the wool of my scarf, pressed close against my cheeks and lips.

I remember one time waiting late at night at outside a bus shelter and watching a woman masturbate inside. She was developmentally delayed and laughing insanely as she reached up into her skirt. She was masturbating, I suppose, just to pass the time. I was only ten years old or so at the time, but I remember thinking that I guessed she had find some way through all that waiting.

Dig You in Deep

Three little girls and a youngish mother are standing in the sandbox at the playground. Jane (5) and her mother are well dressed. Lulu (7) and Betsy (5) are sisters, dressed in clothes that are slightly too small and somewhat out of style.

Mama: Come on! Don’t you want to make another sandcastle?

Jane: I have an idea! I’m gonna bury you, Mama.

Mama: Bury me? Oh noooooo! Don’t bury me!

Lulu: Can we play?

Jane: C’mon! Let’s bury her!

Betsy: Yeah! We’re gonna bury you!

Lulu: We’re gonna dig you in deep!

Mama (playfully): NO! Oh no! How ever will I get out?

Lulu: We’re gonna dig you in so deep, you’ll never get out.

Betsy: You’ll stay there forever and ever!

Jane: Yeah. Forever!

Mama: But what if I get hungry? Or thirsty?

Betsy: That’s too bad.

Jane: Yeah, that’s too bad.

Lulu: No food for you. We’re gonna dig you in so deep, you won’t even get food stamps.

Mama: Someone will rescue me.

Jane: Oh no they won’t. We’ll tell them not to.

Betsy: We won’t let anyone rescue your mom.

Mama: My fairy godmother will come and break me out!

Lulu: Oh no she won’t. There ain’t no such things as fairy godmothers.

Betsy: Yeah. They’re not real.

Mama: Well then a giant earthquake will rumble underground and crack me outa this sand.

Jane: Uhuh.

Betsy: There aren’t any earthquakes here. That won’t work.

Mama: Well, your Mama will come and dig me out.

Lulu: Na-ah. Our Mom’s not here. She’s at home ‘cuz her boyfriend’s over.

Betsy: We might hafta move to another apartment.

Mama: Well, then. When the sky gets dark and everyone else goes home, the trees will start moving around. They’ll see me stuck in here and feel sorry for me and pull me out.

Betsy: Trees don’t move!

Jane: Yeah! Trees don’t move. That’s silly.

Mama: Well, then giant turtles underneath the sand will wake up and lift me out of here.

Lulu: That’s silly. Only God can lift you up!

Betsy: Yeah! And God is dead!

Voice (offstage): Lulu! Betsy! Git your butts back in the house before I hafta come after you! Quit buggin’ that woman and git over here!

Lulu: Ok ok. We gotta go.

Mama: Well, it was nice playing with you girls? Wasn’t it, Jane?

Jane: Yeah. It was nice playing with you.

Betsy (threateningly): You better be here when we get back tomorrow. We’re gonna dig you in all the way up to your eyes!

Betsy and Lulu run offstage.

Jane: Mama. If your fairy godmother doesn’t come, I’ll dig you out.

Mama: Thanks, pussycat. She’s probably just a little busy right now. The end of the month is real busy for fairy godmothers.

99% A True Story

I’m going to tell you a story, 99% of it true, and the other one percent isn’t necessarily a lie. The other one percent is more of a disclaimer. You see, I didn’t realize that the story was actually a story worth repeating until after it happened. Had I been cognizant of the fact that I was in the midst of a story that I would be retelling, well, things would have been different, I might have taken notes or something. Cross checked my references for accuracy, you can never be too careful when it comes to accuracy.

So my story starts out in a rush, more accurately, I was in a rush. See, already with the accuracy. So I’m in a rush, in a rush because I’m late. Now. I really don’t like to be late, I don’t so much mind it in other people, but personally, I don’t like it when I’m late. Unfortunately, I have a tendency to wait until the last minute to do anything, which often leads to me being in a rush. This time though there was an added consideration on my mind, and this weighed even more heavily than the rush, this was a haircut, not just any haircut mind you, the haircut in question was in the shape of a Mohawk.

A bit of background now. Having worn Mohawks of various styles in various settings, I consider myself to be not quite an expert, but definitely a seasoned participant in the great Mohawk hair game. One has to take into consideration all sorts of factors when deciding what style and shape of Mohawk to sport. There’s nothing worse than sending an unintended message due to carelessness. My usual style consists of three to five inch spikes with a quarter inch or so of hair on the sides. I find that this sends out a punk vibe, but at the same time is fun and subversive, not necessarily anarchic or intimidating. I find that shorter on the sides lends to more of a Nazi-punk, skinhead feel, something I desperately try to avoid. So I leave a little on the sides, I’m just not that tough.

Now, this background comes into play as I attempted to clean up the sides of my Mohawk, and with the help of a friend and my trusty beard trimmer, did just that. The problem is that I set things up a bit off. Instead of a quarter inch, the sides of my head were sporting more of a five o’clock shadow look, very short. We’re talking millimeters on the sides, we’re talking Nazi-Punk Skinhead Mohawk. After analyzing it in the bathroom for about a half hour, I came to the realization that there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. My only option was to go from skinhead Mohawk to straight up skinhead, and I’ve got kind of a misshapen head, so shaved all over was ruled out. Anyway, all this self-evaluation lead to me being a bit late to meet up with my friends for a Friday afternoon happy hour. And I love Friday afternoon happy hours. So I quickly grabbed my wallet and keys out of my work pants and threw them into the jeans I was wearing. This is important because had I worn my work pants (which I almost did) I would have had my wallet and keys and also my Switch Blade Box Cutter Knife. This move comes into play later.

So, there I am, late, but not too late, headed into St. Paul to meet up with my friends. It’s a beautiful Friday afternoon, the sun is shinning, the temperature is rising, I’m in an excellent mood and excited to see my friends. On the fifteen minute or so drive into St. Paul I talk on the phone with an old friend who had broken up with her boyfriend some months earlier. She exclaimed that even though she knew she was better off without this relationship, she still missed her ex-boyfriend. I empathized and together we theorized that it wasn’t the specific people we were missing, more the intimacy and familiarity. It was an interesting conversation about human interaction and emotion. She assured me that my haircut couldn’t be that bad.

So I get to St. Paul, and it’s a beautiful day on Grand Avenue. The sun is still shinning, there are tons of people out and about enjoying all the various attractions that Grand Avenue has to offer. This is important to the story, because when Grand Avenue is busy (like it was at the time) traffic moves slowly with all the parallel parking and pedestrian crossing and whatnot. Top speed is maybe 25 mph, and there are lots of stoplights. So I’m cruising on Grand, enjoying the beautiful day, watching the happy people, pondering this interesting conversation, and I see my bar, The Wild Onion. The Wild Onion happens to be one of the few places on Grand Avenue that has off street parking, and as early as it was in the day, there was a good chance that I could get a spot in the lot. As I pull towards the lot, I notice a car inching out onto the street, trying to see around the parallel parked cars that obstruct the view of oncoming traffic. Being the nice guy that I am, I slow up, put on my turn signal, and motion for this car to make his turn onto the street so that I can make my turn into the lot. He waves a thank-you, makes his turn, I make my turn and quickly find a spot right in the front of the lot. Excellent. This is where things take a turn for the weird.

So I park the car in an excellent mood, despite my semi-scary Nazi-Punk Skinhead haircut. I got a great parking spot, I’m meeting up with good friends, the weather is beautiful, people are out and about, I had a stimulating conversation with an old friend, life is good indeed. I get out, lock the car, and turn to face a strange looking guy about my age, maybe a little older. He’s definitely one of those Grand Avenue St. Paul Hipsters; he’s wearing that sort of uniform in scruffy jeans, a black sport coat over some old-styled black t-shirt that you know he just bought at Urban Outfitters, expensive black sunglass, styled messy hair. This guy spent a lot of money to look broke. Slightly bigger than me, not intimidating in the least, but he looks pissed. Angry.

And then he starts screaming at me. I’m startled because I’m in a great mood, and this is completely unexpected. The guy is screaming about turn signals and stopping suddenly and something about not knowing how to drive. I’m bewildered. Where is this coming from? Do I know this lunatic? Will violence transpire? Strange Hipster fellow proceeds to scream at me for 15 seconds or so and then turns around, to head back to his car. I’m amused, still in a good mood. What was this guy’s problem? I’m not really scared, because I’m pretty sure I can take this guy in a fight and also because if he was going to take a swing at me for whatever he felt I did wrong, he already would have. Almost laughing, but a little bit serious, I say to Strange Angry Hipster,

“Do you feel better now? Do you feel like a big man?” This apparently set off some sort chemically reaction in Strange Angry Hipster’s brain because he proceeded to unscrew the lid off his travel cup and throw the contents into my face. The contents of this particular travel cup being hot coffee. In my face. I am livid, I am furious, I am mayhem.

Another side note, I’m wearing a green Puma zip-up that I bought for St. Patrick’s Day. I had only previously worn it on St. Patrick’s Day. So this almost brand new green Puma zip-up is covered, and likely ruined, by the hot coffee thrown onto me by Strange Angry Hipster. My face is slightly burned, but I didn’t feel it at the time due to an extreme rush of adrenalin throughout my body.

Dripping hot coffee, I wind up and lunge at Strange Angry Hipster who by this point likely realizes that he crossed some sort of line that clearly states strangers do NOT throw hot coffee into the face of another stranger, especially when stranger on the receiving end of aforementioned hot coffee is some sort of Skinhead Nazi-Punk. I am pissed, and I am one step away from hitting this Strange Angry Hipster, literally three feet and closing fast, when suddenly some sort of small blonde creature comes flying out of nowhere and wraps me into some sort of violent embrace. The Small Blonde Creature is shrieking at me.

“Don’t hit him! Don’t hit him! It’s his fault, we’re sorry, please don’t hit him!” Turns out that the Small Blonde Creature is Strange Angry Hipster’s girlfriend. I take a deep breath and politely ask Small Blond Creature to let me go. She looks deep into my eyes, pleads with me one more time not to hit him, and lets me go, careful to stay between me and Strange Angry Hipster. I smile a wicked smile, still dripping hot coffee, and tell Small Blonde Creature that Strange Angry Hipster is a very foolish person, but I’m not going to hit him.

I have a plan. Small Blonde Creature said not to hit him, and so I wouldn’t. I reach for my left pocket instead. I’m going to stab Strange Angry Hipster with my trusty Switch Blade Box Cutter Knife! And then the realization hit me…I left the knife in my work pants! What a rookie mistake! I should have known upon leaving my house, all happy and in a rush that I would be accosted by a Strange Angry Hipster and the contents of his travel mug. By this time people are rushing from the patio out into the parking lot. Plenty of witnesses offer to back up my story if I want to press charges. I was assaulted they say. Sadly enough, none of these potential witnesses happen to be carrying a Switch Blade Box Cutter Knife, at least none that I could borrow for a moment.

I sigh. I smile one last time at Strange Angry Hipster, a wicked smile, hopefully conveying just how close he’d come to mayhem, and I walked into the bar. It was Friday Afternoon Happy Hour after all, and I love a good Friday afternoon happy hour.