maybe nothing is small anymore. maybe everything is big.
Archive for January, 2003
my first assignment in short story writing class was to write one scene in three completely different ways. the sequence of events had to be the same in each one: a character pulls the stop cord on the bus, gets up, steps off onto the sidewalk, and sees an old woman walking her dog.
How beautiful this place is! she thought, as the bus neared her stop. How much the way I imagined it! Look at this little red bus full of Londoners on their way to work or school or tea! She pulled the yellow cord near the window to tell the bus driver to stop. Sheíd been dreaming of coming to London since she was a little girl, and now here she was! Collecting her purse, backpack, camera, and shopping bags from the seat next to her, she made her way to the front of the bus with the other passengers, stopping just outside the bus to take in the sights: Big Ben piercing the crisp blue sky, the Thames rippling in the sunlight. Even the little old woman walking her dog along the river seemed to fit perfectly in merry old England. He was already slowing down for the next bus stop, but the blonde girl a few rows back pulled the cord anyway. Pushing the lever to open the passenger door, he watched in the rearview mirror as she collected her things from the seat next to her. These girls are all the same, he thought to himself as he watched her thin short skirt ride up on her thigh as she stood to exit. Always tarted up as though everyoneís watching them. Still, as she stepped off the bus and stopped to watch an old woman walking her dog, he got a nice look at her ass. Fucking tourists, he thought as he watched her pull the yellow stop cord. Theyíre never going to realize that theyíre not the only people here. He was tired and hungry and ready to go home, and he didnít appreciate the fact that she had used the last available seat for her mountain of useless purchases, forcing him to stand in the aisle next to some smelly old geezer. As he walked behind her toward the exit, he decided that London could go to hell for all he cared, with its disgusting river and dirty old pseudo-landmarks and hordes of ignorant visitors. It figures, he thought, as she stopped directly in front of him to watch some old woman walking her dog, sheíd block the way and keep us all from getting off the bus.
if we are tired, we work anyway. if we have papers to write or schoolbooks to read, we work anyway. if we are hung over, feverish, nauseated, dizzy, deathly ill, we work anyway.
we prepare for battle as soon as we arrive, making sure everything is in place for the onslaught. when it comes, we run and throw things and yell and call each other names. we chug water as though we never will again, drink black coffee in mass quantities. we move quickly past one another with practiced efficiency, never colliding, never breaking. tactical errors are made, insults are hurled, rules are changed. liquid splattered, knives wiped, wounds bandaged.
in the end, our faces and clothing are a mess, our hair tangled, our hands sticky, lacerated, burned. we sit down together, exhausted and starving, for beer and food.
the thing that’s always fascinated me about waiting tables is how seriously everyone takes it, how emotionally and physically taxing it is, how much like an all-out war it can sometimes be, and how it’s all in the name of a temporary experience. the opponent customer will eliminate their medium-rare steak and bottle of merlot within twelve hours, will pay their credit-card bill within a month, and within a year or two, will not remember having been there at all.
i’ve been riding my bike a lot lately, but i don’t have anything to say about that. i don’t have anything to say about how i’m still nervous in traffic, crossing major streets and stopping at stopsigns. i don’t have anything to say about the way my headphones fit underneath my helmet. i don’t have anything to say about the sweat on my upper lip or that my ears kind of burn on the inside after i’m done riding.
school started, but i have nothing to say about how i don’t spend five hours a night studying. i don’t have anything to say about how i used to joke around with my professors and meet friends between classes for coffee or lunch. i don’t have anything to say about not speaking up in class like i used to. i don’t have anything to say about spending my days on campus in total silence, my eyes glazed over, my face blank. i don’t have anything to say about my good knee hurting or my toothache or my 185.5 milligrams of effexor. i don’t have anything to say about vitamins or muscle aches or darts or beer or crossword puzzles. i have nothing to say about breast cancer or movies. when my dad went down to the basement to get something to take to my grandmother at the nursing home, my aunt yelled down, “see that suit of hers hanging on the rack? the blue one?” “yes!” my dad called back. “that’s the one she wants to be buried in!” i have nothing to say about that, either.really, ladies, if you’re going to squat over the bowl in a public toilet, please wipe all your piss off the seat, okay?
