Sitting at my desk around 4:20, I heard “Save Your Tears” by The Weeknd being belted out. I loved “Blinding Lights” the first time I heard it. It didn’t take long for “Save Your Tears” to become my favorite. It was the last song I listened to as I fell asleep last night.
I looked at my devices to see if one of them was on. 1 of my 2 giant TVs displayed the Blink camera view. But the sound is down on that. Or so I thought. It dawned on me that I was hearing it twice: both through the window and through the Blink camera streaming to my tv. I stepped out on the deck to watch the brother and sister from downstairs walking across the parking lot, heading home after school, both of them belting out the song with enthusiasm. They were pretty good, even though they were clowning around.
“That’s one of my favorite songs. I love it and listen to it on repeat sometimes. Y’all are pretty good.”
We got a good laugh out of it.
The sister said, “Nah, my voice is cracking.”
“You never know,” I said. “You could be a singer. It just takes practice and a willingness to belt it out just like that.”
Earlier, I met my neighbor, Noah, while I finished laundry. He told me about himself. We share something in common, too: he’s not a fan of Johnson and for many of the same reasons.
I don’t use the camera as a security device. I use it as a window, staring out into the open world. Game weeks bring a lot of traffic. I’ll try to remember that each vehicle is occupied by someone living a life of melody, even if we don’t hear it.
I left work and walked down the hill to the lower parking lot, feeling the sun and the cooler temperature soothe me. Work was fast-paced and physical today; I walked for miles before work, as well as obsessively did an insane number of push-ups at random intervals.
Because I’m not the brightest, I didn’t know that I had Google Fit on my phone until last weekend. Today’s tally by 1 p.m.? 25,000 steps. Please forgive me if it sounds like a humblebrag. The truth is that I woke up early this morning and felt compelled to wander the streets; evidently, all of them. 🙂
Walking down the hill, I saw a man with a black backpack standing at the Razorback bus stop. I said, “Hello,” as I passed him. “How are you doing?” He returned my greeting and said, “Good, except waiting on the bus is a pain today.”
I crossed the plant barrier along the outer rim of the parking lot. For a moment, I thought I had my car stolen, though. At that point, it dawned on me that I parked in the parking garage this morning. (Stolen by myself and hidden from my memory.) I turned and went back up the hill and found my car. I assume it was mine, as the key worked. The odds of there being two tiny Chevy Sparks that color of spa blue was slim. After walking so much, I didn’t care if I had the wrong car.
I turned and drove back toward the lower lot. The man with the backpack still stood there. I turned into the parking lot, exited the car, and said, “Hey, this is going to sound weird, but do you want a ride instead of waiting for the bus?”
He looked at me with a bit of surprise on his face. “How do you know which direction I’m going?”
Without missing a beat, I said, “Pam told me.”
He was confused. “Who is Pam?”
“Exactly. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Doesn’t matter where.” It seemed like a good gesture.
He bent and picked up his backpack and walked over, and got inside the car. “These are small, aren’t they?”
“I get a different car each time I gain or lose weight,” I said. “I should have been driving a Tahoe until last October.” I laughed.
I introduced myself and tapped my work badge to show him that my name is X. He told me his name was John.
“Where to?” I asked. “This is like non-profit Uber, so make your wish.”
“I’d like to go to Walmart, actually. It’s not where I was headed, but I can catch the bus again from there. Is that okay?”
“Yes, lord knows they need the money.” We both laughed.
He told me that he is a part-time student at the university. He wanted to go back full-time but couldn’t afford it this semester.
“It’s a long story,” he told me.
“Yes, and it’s a long life,” I said, laughing. “There’s not really a deadline for school. Keep going, even if you can only afford a class or two at a time. You’re going to burn through the years anyway.” I didn’t tell him I knew this from experience; the grey hair on my face and head probably made that clear.
I drove him to the Walmart by the mall. As he thanked me for the ride, I told him, “I’m going to Home Depot to return a can of paint. If you want, I can drive back over and pick you up.”
“Nah, that’s kind, but I can’t ask you to do that,” John objected.
“You didn’t ask me. I offered. It’s not out of my way.”
He thought about it. “Okay. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes, but I’ll be by the garden center side of the store.”
He walked toward the Walmart entrance, and I risked life and limb crossing over to the opposite side of the road where Home Depot is. The traffic in that area is hair-raising on the best of days.
Thirty minutes later, I saw John standing where he’d said he’d be. He didn’t have a Walmart bag, so I assumed his purchases were in his backpack.
“Where to? It better be somewhere interesting,” I told him.
“To campus, if you don’t mind.”
“Mind? I’d love to see what’s going on there and ponder that it’s been 35 years since I first attended school there.” That’s a sobering thought, that expanse of time filled with a lot of living.
While I drove, John asked me about my name and the backstory. That turned into quite the conversational odyssey.
“That is cool, X.”
I dropped him off in one of the campus parking lots.
“Nice talking to you, and thank you so much for the rides. Most people wouldn’t pick up strangers, X.” John smiled.
“You’re not a stranger anymore, John. Besides, Pam vouched for you.”
He laughed unexpectedly.
I drove to the apartment, thinking about John and his story and how many thousands of people live a similar life here in Fayetteville. They arrived with plans and a timeline; life intervened, and they adapted.
A visit to Sam’s proved valuable in my quest for tomfoolery. The door checker was very adamant I use the Scan-As-You-Go feature. I told him I thought that was for the bathroom. (Is that joke funny?) Among my many feats, I went down the chip and nut aisle and scanned every item on it, about 50 items. And then asked for help to remove “a couple” of things I needed to delete from my app checkout cart. Several people asked for assistance because I still wore my work badge, soft purple shirt, and fantastic Dance Commander brooch. I did my best to help them except for the last guy, who was in a bad mood and couldn’t find the coffee on sale. Without missing a beat, I told him it was all the way in the back rear corner, past the paper towels. Note: it’s not there. But it was the furthest point from me in the store. He walked off, and I decided it would be a good time to leave. I hope he complains about me to the manager! If I don’t get Employee of The Month, I’ll know who to blame. . The picture of 3 photos is of the upper right corner of my fridge, which I’m loading with photo magnets. Everyone in the pictures except me suffers or suffered from addiction issues. Of the 5 other people in the photos, all but one of them died with their addictions. My sister Marsha is making another heroic effort to right her ship as I write this. Having phrased it slightly wrong when I said “other than me,” the truth is that everyone suffers if they love someone with addictions. Watching someone get on the diving board and stay there and then lose the battle is one of the most painful experiences any of us can live through.
There are no bystanders to addiction. . It’s nice having a metal door. Not because it heats up to 180 F in the summer. Or prevents most people from being able to kick it. No, I like it because I can fill it with photo magnets and nonsense. . The purpose of the picture of me against the brownish wallpaper background is two-fold: to show the brooch I wore today and to give publicity to someone’s kitchen wallpaper. I’m not standing in said kitchen. I took a picture of me standing near the trail and transposed myself onto the wild wallpaper background. The brooch inspired a lot of comments: Is it a pilot’s insignia? Was it a repurposed military medal? My go-to response was this: I’ve been promoted to Dance Commander. Whatever you do, DO NOT go to YouTube and watch “Dance Commander – Electric Six.” I love the song, but I’m guessing 103% of y’all won’t. (It’s more than 100% due to the number of my social media friends who have multiple voices in their heads.)
. The picture of the two pennies was the second brooch I made. I gave it to my Director as a gift. If the joke is too thin, it’s this: “Here are my two cents worth.” It might come in handy in conversations.
. The picture of the broken watch is sentimental. I broke off 1/2 of the band and attached a brooch clip on the reverse. I couldn’t bring myself to discard the broken watch. The phoenix in me told me to give it new life – so I did.
. The fuchsia-colored bird metalwork is something I had made by Married To The Metal on Etsy. I painted it when I moved here. If you’re interested, you should look up the word “Onism” on “The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.” It’s delightful and an apt reminder while I live inside this box. It is where I discovered the word “Sonder” and many others that are a delight.
. The picture of the edge of my deck is my color tile project-in-the-making. Several of the neighbors probably think of me as some kind of artist because, most days, I’m on the deck painting a variety of things that look out of place. The apartment simplex has a variety of people: dealer, disabled, dog people, and probable serial killer. I have a lot to shoot for if I want to become the most infamous resident here. To be accused of too much color and art would be a glorious compliment.
. I went outside and picked up a lot of trash. I quit, though, because my neighbor Bill got angry when I tried to put him in a trash bag. Please take a shower, Bill. Joking aside, I find myself picking up the mess here often. It’s not my job, but I hope I never get to the point where such things don’t register in my brain; doing so will mean I’ve accepted my environment. There are several things about this place that are very much in need of handcuffs, flamethrowers, or eye-rolling. While I was out, I managed to place another prank in plain view. Just call me Prank Sinatra. . A FedX truck barreled into the parking lot while I stood outside, relishing the breeze. The driver had salsa music blaring. For southerners, ‘salsa music’ isn’t music you listen to while you eat Tex-Mex, by the way. The driver was surprised I greeted him in Spanish. I love watching drivers pull up and always hope they need a signature. They can expect a lot of interesting scenarios with the crowd who lives here. Barking, sometimes even from actual dogs, suspiciously-folded window blinds, and a strange cast of characters. . I have to go choose among my 17 colors of paint and see what needs brightening now. I know I don’t. I hope the mood lasts. Last evening was a challenge for me. In closing, I’d like to add: no, Marilyn, I don’t have a cat yet, although I suspect I ate a bit of cat food in the cafeteria this morning at work.
Y’all signed up for this, so in deference to Ron White, who quipped (paraphrasing), “I know I have the right to remain silent, just not the ability.”
It’s a great thing that I love burned food. I made homemade pizzas (though you wouldn’t like the way I do…). I set Alexa for ten minutes. That’s what I thought I said. Because I mumble worse than a child who got caught pilfering cookies, I evidently said “twenty minutes.” The smoke alarm didn’t go off. I bought one of those new-fangled kinds that gauges the luxury of the residence. Mine evidently thinks I’ll be better off if the place turns to cinders. Though it’s a ‘smart’ device with built-in wifi, it calls 7-11 instead of 911. That’s a joke. I think it’s a joke. Flavor Flav once said, “9-1-1 is a joke in your town.” To that, I’d reply, “Yeah, until you need it.” And all of us eventually do.
Saturday, despite having great conversations with three lovely souls, I found myself doing projects to fill the quiet: colorful ones designed to invade both the interior and exterior of my old apartment. I keep hoping I’ll fill it with enough brightness to drown out the shadows. Don’t get me wrong; I’m so grateful for having my health and sanity. The latter is currently on hiatus.
One of the people I talked to told me that she found herself busy with projects when she was in my situation, filling time with movement and results. She said she could see through the tightly-slitted blinds of my writing that I was experiencing the all-too-human sensation of loneliness, and doubly so given my nature.
It’s not that I’m always alone, far from it. The universes watches me closely, though, and quite often waits to throw a shawl over my enthusiasm precisely when I’m not expecting it.
I got a call yesterday that was both gratifying and emotional; as with such calls, it took me time to process it and look at it from a different perspective. It’s all in my head, of course. That’s how we experience reality, isn’t it? In our own way, cherry-picking the parts that reinforce what we’re thinking. It varies by mood, day, and person. None of us share the same reality because the voice in our head is the overriding narrative that sometimes drowns out the positive things in our lives. Or at least dims it just long enough to doubt ourselves. I envy people whose narrative is overwhelmingly one of gratitude and acceptance. What a superpower they have. Imagine if Superman walked around convincing everyone that they’re worthy. He wouldn’t need to jump tall buildings.
This is all normal – or so I’m told.
Because I’m lucky enough to have seen behind the curtains of people’s lives, I know that normal is just a word in the dictionary. One of the most normal people I know thinks it’s a great idea to shower about once a week. He doesn’t smell bad, so I’m not sure what alchemy or process he uses to “save water and time” by not showering.
It’s the universe’s perverse sense of humor that catches me off guard. No matter how good my morning or day has been, there is always a risk of unexpectedly getting smacked in the head. Sometimes, it brings joy. Sometimes, confusion. The morning gave me a bit of joy seeing the neighborhood, running without stopping, buying something for a project to help someone else out, and talking to great people.
Lord, though, the shadows.
I don’t want anyone to think I’m on happiness auto-pilot. It’s why I tell a couple of my friends that I understand all too well how our minds lay traps for us and that I understand their coping mechanisms. Short-term coping mechanisms are essential. So many of us make them inescapable habits, ones which shut off the rational parts of our lives.
I took a diamond painting of my cat Guino, the one who owns the house I used to live in – and I painted it vivid red. I changed something of the old and made it my own.
I made a runner of felt-backed tiles and put them on the deck outside my apartment. They don’t serve a purpose, except to add color and juxtapose themselves against the faded boards of the landing. I’m sure my pixie Larkma will appreciate the ornate sidewalk of the tiles. (And it tickles me that people will read the last sentence and wonder what in the hell I’m talking about.)
The burned pizzas were delicious. I didn’t plan to burn them but then wonder why I didn’t do it on purpose. No one is here to ask me what in blazes I’m doing in the kitchen.
Notes: *To the FedEx guy who got excited when I explained how easy it is to change his name, I hope you do. You’re forty and it is ridiculous to not choose a name you’ll love.
*To the bicyclist who went by earlier, wearing bright pink ankle shoes and a hat that looked like it was a spray-painted magician’s hat, more power to you, sir.
*To the neighbor who thinks no one sees that you sometimes hold the leash and let the dog walk onto the landing to pee, you’re wrong. One day soon, as a joke, I’m going to sneak over there and hang a urinal on the railing, and mark it “For Canine Use Only.” This idea pleases me.
*The best pizza recipe in the world: however you want it. I’m constantly preaching that all food is subjective. All of us eat stuff that would make a college freshman retch into his tiny decorative beer box, the one he uses temporarily, albeit for an entire year, as a bathroom trash can. I humbly ask everyone to stop arguing from the perspective that there is a right choice about food choices. Live and let eat, even if you have to wear a blindfold and a clothespin on your nose. Also, both of these devices might make walking around this world more palatable at times.
*The breeze this morning is sublime and filled with humidity from the rain. It’s scented with foliage and the unmistakable aroma of someone’s massive cannabis habit. I’m not sure that sentiment would work well in an Emerson poem. But it works well for a Fayetteville, Arkansas moment.
*A few of my neighbors borrowed a large screen tv to watch the Razorback game. I’m not a fan. I’m a fan of large TVs, but not college football. They are still happy this morning, being able to celebrate their team winning. I would be a hateful bastard to dampen that enthusiasm. I smile, nod, and say, “…and they won by a huge margin.” That’s the extent of my game facts for yesterday. That’s enough, though.
*I never thought about “Hype Man” being a part of several people’s Wikipedia biography pages. I can’t any college that offers a major in “Hype.” I’m irritated about this oversight.
*People sometimes tell me to cool it and stop writing so many dumb jokes and to shut my brain off for a day. The last time I tried that, the City of Fayetteville offered me a job on the Urban Planning Commission based on qualifications.
*I’d plant more ideas in your head, except I definitely don’t want to get in there and water them.
There are so many beautiful houses near my apartment. I especially admire the ones packed with a variety of plants and foliage and a little bit of carelessness regarding the lawn. It’s easy to lose track of time wandering the streets, especially when I’m not attentive to how the byways interconnect. Streets with names like Elm, Poplar, Baker, Erstan, and Green Acres. One of the things about running is that I don’t have enough time to appreciate the gentle breeze, the wall of scents emanating from some of the yards, or give the inhabitants of some of these houses time enough to see me and greet me. If I’m walking, I take a moment to tell them how beautiful their yards are. One of the truths of life is that people forget the beauty around them; they go environmentally blind. I’ve noted the addresses a few times and sent them an anonymous postcard to let them know that the time, money, and effort are observable and appreciated. I don’t know if ironic is the right word. Still, it always occurs to me that most of the beauty in a yard tends to be enjoyed and observed by passersby rather than the owners.
There’s a metaphor there, one you should remember as you look at yourself in the mirror or wonder if you’ve added any value to people’s lives. The tentacles of who we are tend to be vast, though invisible. I continue to learn that we seldom know or recognize when people appreciate us. It is common for me to consider how ridiculous it is that we don’t take the time to be vulnerable.
The passenger train is running a little late as I finish my run. The blare of the horn is deafening. Oddly though, even as I wince a little, it is comforting. I wave with a little bit too much enthusiasm at the passengers; they watch me, I observe them. Several return my wave.
I’ve been using the dryer timer cycle as a bell to start my run a few times lately. It limits my burst of energy. I use the law of increments to my advantage. I can’t promise to run miles each day. But I can harness the enthusiasm that sometimes grips me and commit myself to do what I can now, today. Now that I’ve cooled off a little, I’ll return to my apartment. But I have snapshots in my head of this morning’s breeze, the walkers and the runners, and of the beautiful yards.
P.S. I found the flower art in the middle of the road. Whatever was connected to it is gone. I’m assuming it fell from a passing vehicle. I wonder what was attached at the top.
I’m reluctant to share it, but someone wrote and gave me one of the best compliments ever:
“X. What are you DOING? Sometimes I don’t quite get what you’re writing about, but I always feel what you’re saying. I wonder what it is you’re supposed to be doing. Whatever it is, I wish you’d figure it out and channel your interests. It would be amazing. Write a wanderer post this weekend if you can. Signed, A Lurker”
One of these days, calamity will knock at my door. It’s inevitable.
But not today.
I’m grateful.
I didn’t know how to include this story in my earlier post. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to try. Like my countless pranks, I don’t want to take a picture of them or reveal them.
I saw her in the parking lot, standing next to her car. The frustration and anxiety were written plainly on her face. Her passenger-side front tire was flat.
I parked and said, “Hello, my name is X, and I’m here to help.” I know it sounds tilted; it was amusing to me as I said it. I’m actively looking for karma opportunities; I never fail to find them if I look carefully because life is so full of surprises.
“I can’t get my boyfriend or sister to answer the phone.” She sounded a little defeated. Most of us have been there before. “I have groceries in the trunk, getting hot.”
“Okay.” I showed her my work badge. “My name really is X. Here’s where I work. Do you need to get home with the groceries, or do you need the flat fixed?”
“That’s kind. It’s okay.” She said it with enough half-enthusiasm so that even a dim bulb like me could see she was saying it out of politeness.
“It’s not okay. I’m going to get my portable inflator from the so-called trunk of my car and air up your tire first, okay?” I didn’t wait for her to reply.
I connected my inflator to her cigarette lighter socket, pulled the cord around, knelt, and began airing the tire up. I ran my fingers around the tire. A screw of some sort protruded from the rubber. “You have a screw in your tire.”
I inflated the tire to 35 psi. “How far is home for you?”
“Three miles,” she said.
“I’m going to show you how to use this inflator, okay?” I gave her a 30-second demonstration. “Take this with you,” I told her, handing her the inflator. “I doubt your car has a sensor to alert you that it’s going flat. I think it is a slow leak and you didn’t notice when you left your house. If you have any doubts, stop if traffic takes too long and check it. Otherwise, drive straight home.”
“I can’t take your inflator. That’s too much.” She smiled.
“Too much is getting caught off guard. You need one of these in your car.”
She smiled. “How do I return the inflator to you?”
“This is not the sort of thing you return! Take it and keep it in every car you own. Flats are nobody’s fault. Do you have enough money to get the flat fixed permanently? If not, it’s okay to say so.” I looked directly at her to let her know that I knew all too well what it’s like to be without options.
She stepped forward. I assumed to shake my hand. Instead, she hugged me.
I made my escape. This sort of thing can bring me to tears if I dwell on it.
It’s not the first inflator I’ve given somebody who has needed it.
I hope it won’t be the last.
$25 is a small price to pay to spread the gospel of inflators and paying it forward.
We’re all going to have flats. Metaphorically and literally.
The sun hits my door, wall, and apartment with a ferocity that’s easy to underestimate.
I stand on the balcony, forgetting that the sun is browning my arms, face, and neck.
I don’t need TV. Life unfolds and coalesces in the parking lot, in the street, and at the train tracks. Runners, walkers, and cyclists wait their turn. Razorback Transit quickens its schedule.
A woman drove up in a minivan, smoking furiously. Her dog sat in the passenger seat, wagging its tail. The woman nervously waved “Hello” to me as the dog jumped through the passenger window and onto the parking lot asphalt. They waked up the stairs. She pulled up a window and bent to pick up the dog. She pushed it through the window that had no screen. I couldn’t discern what she was saying, so my imagination went in three different directions.
She turned, walked down the stairs, and backed up to leave. How I knew she’d turn into traffic without adequate caution, I’m not sure. The blare of a horn didn’t deter her from turning right, even though her turn signal indicated an opposite intention.
I’ve seen so many near-accidents.
The hummingbirds hover within a foot of my face, observing me as I watch them.
At 7:30, the sun sets on the horizon, a deep orange-red.
I hear the neighbors animatedly discussing the details of their mundane day.
The shelving boards I painted today baked enough in the sun to take inside, so I carried them inside and put them in one of my two unused bedrooms.
When I return, the hummingbirds dive and dance around me as the curtain of insects create a wall of sound.
I stand motionless. The one who seems interested in me most days lands on the balcony within an inch of my hand. After ten seconds, it darts up to the feeder and probes each floret of the feeder.
It darts off. By eight, the sun has bid adieu.
My solar lanterns all shine, even the one I installed on the opposite stairway today.
I’m not answering the call of the Wanderer tonight, Fayetteville. My legs ache a bit from last night’s enthusiasm and loneliness.
I’m going to turn off the lights and have a moment of gratitude.
I spent another afternoon painting everything. Well, not everything. The neighbor’s dog escaped. My quest to fill my life with color is proceeding like the General Lee across an unexpected levee. If that reference is too old for you, try this one: …like an NFL linebacker making his way to the pizza… or a housewife driving into a Target parking lot.
The Covid debate raged around me everywhere. I wish everyone could visit a full ICU-Covid unit and see how incredibly difficult this virus has made everyone’s lives. It’s easy for me to forget that not everyone shares my vantage point. For many people, it’s like imagining a war fought overseas; distant, disconnected. The truth is I find myself doing my part while simultaneously glancing away. Each day that passes, I hope that no one I know or love will need emergency care. The waits are incredible, and the misery is real for everyone, patients and family members. I have my opinion about BB&BBQ, Arkansas football games, and other social gatherings. But no one cares about my earned opinion. Instead of throwing my two cents in, I hope everyone can avoid Covid if possible. And if not, that it does not cut you or your family too profoundly as it lays its fickle finger across your life.
So that you know, I still go out in public. I wear a mask and try to avoid licking my fingers at random times. For me, my most significant exposure to Covid has been inside my allegedly safe bubble at work. Repeatedly. Even if I do everything right, I must work. It doesn’t stress me. It’s not because I fail to understand the risks. It’s because I’m at the mercy of everyone around me. The truth? I always have been. We all are. The sooner we realize it and act like our actions affect everyone around us will be a good day. While we’re at it, let’s make fundamental changes to our social policy and healthcare system so that no one will worry about medical care.
Until then, I’m going to get back to painting.
But I’ll be thinking about y’all and hoping we’ll all be safe. We won’t be. But I’m hoping.
(The video is of a fairy light set I made by inverting a blue glass hummingbird feeder and installing solar lights into it.)
My intention to do fewer projects lasted…about as long as you’d imagine.
I went to buy powerful magnets, which led me to investigate every single aisle in the store. During my visit, I helped three people find things. I spent about five minutes answering a woman’s questions about a wood project she was undertaking. In so doing, I saved her a LOT of money. She then asked me several more questions about other things she was considering. Before she walked away, she also asked me about my butterfly brooch.
She added, “You know, I’m going to go the aisle with the pins and brooches and buy a couple. It’s an easy way to add color and draw the eye.”
I laughed. “Yes. I think the way you smile probably does that, too.” As soon as I said it, it crossed my mind that it sounded like I was flirting. Before I could utter a word, she stopped me. “It’s okay. Thanks for that.”
At Lowe’s, I bought more electrical items; this apartment begs for a total renovation. Along with those, I purchased more practical things, too. Possibly in a nod to more inevitable painting projects, I also bought more paint, which led me to justify buying a couple of surprise things at the next store. The clerked seemed surprised that I would take all the hardware off and paint a box I’d purchased. “Can you do that?” she asked. “Ha! Yes. And in at least two colors.”
Because I had paint all over me within 30 minutes of arriving home, I opted for Dominos. In case you were wondering, I order cheeseless thin-crust pizzas with vegetables. My stove looks like a sauce/spice madman was let loose. Using four sauces and four spices (so that each piece tastes distinctive) to eat such a pizza makes my taste buds go wild. Taking another look, make that six different sauces-and maybe a smidgen of paint, too.
I rigged two hangers on the balcony to paint without continuing to paint my hands and arms accidentally. And face. If I show up for work tomorrow with paint still across my neck and forehead, mind your business. It’s interesting when I’m doing these things because the neighbors get curious and find ways to look up or over to see whatever thing or contraption I’m working on for the day. It’s tempting to drag out ridiculous things just to convince onlookers that I’ve lost my mind.
When I stopped at the convenience store to get a soda and lottery tickets, the skies had opened up for a surprise rain. It was a beautiful sight, despite the mugginess. The clerk who speaks Nepali didn’t object to a tip this time, though she did insist on adding something to my purchase to reduce her tip. Little did she know she was dealing with a wily expert on such subterfuge. I added two dollar bills to the counter, saluted, laughed, and walked away. She smiled. “Karma,” I said to her in a weird accent.
I’d write more, but paint is calling my name and in all caps.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 