Me: *tosses handful of shredded lettuce from my sandwich down for them*
Miss B: *sniffs daintily* WHAT IS THIS GREEN SHIT? I MEAN, IT CAME FROM THE MONKEY SO IT MUST BE GOOD…BUT REALLY, WHAT IS IT?
Odd Trundles: *leaps on it* MANNA! MANNA FROM THE MONKEY! OM NOM NOM!
So I gave in and tossed a handful of Cheetos too, but Miss B was having none of THAT either. I believe her pride had been touched. So I, the sucker, fed her Cheetos by hand while Odd slavered and cleaned the floor.
Anyway, I’m home from a day spent in the lounge of the car dealership. I walked over to the bookstore nearby (please, dear God, don’t let that one close) and had some lovely quiet time until some jackass decided to use the cafe as his office and started making loud phone calls about just how important he was. Whoever he was trying to impress, I don’t think it worked. That drove me back to the car dealership, where I sat and read while a huge television in the corner yapped with some sort of talk show. I tuned it out as best I could, especially the commercials.
It’s a funny thing; after not having a television for two solid years when I first met my ex, I sort of lost the trick of watching it. Commercials make me antsy and the constant blather that usually says nothing at all of substance grates. The canned laughter on most sitcoms grates too–I mean, come on, do you think I’m so stupid you have to tell me when to laugh? I’ll laugh when I please, or not at all, dammit.
Then I got one of those priceless moments of material: into the lounge, where four women were sitting reading quietly (two with ebook readers, one with a magazine, and me with a paperback) came what I can only describe as a pathological extrovert, a woman who literally could not stop talking. She had manicured claws in one of the mechanics, and bent his ear for a good fifteen minutes, loudly, about the weather in Arizona. (I kid you not.) Then she circled the room looking to attach herself to one of the reading women, most of whom gave polite but noncommittal replies and returned to their books. I didn’t respond at all, so she settled and began loudly playing with her phone, talking in response to texts or emails she had apparently received. It was sort of fascinating to observe, and saddening too. I wondered why she was so hungry for talk, I wondered why she needed the attention. I wondered what her story was, and what it was like to be her, all day every day.
Sometimes I feel guilty that everything and everyone around me is material for the story-mill inside my head. There’s always that part of me taking notes, analyzing, observing and weighing and remembering for later stories. The reflex is so ingrained now, I don’t think I could shut it off if I tried.
I got my car back, ran a few more errands, grabbed lunch at the bagel shop (I love that place) and retreated homeward, where I was greeted by overjoyed canines who thought that OBVIOUSLY the lunch I carried was theirs. It is blessedly quiet, and I can mull over everything I saw and sensed today, to see where it fits in the mosaic of unformed tales.
Aaaaah, yes, that’s better.