I have (fake) blonde.
I have traveled to 11 different countries.
I wear my sunglasses an obnoxiously long time after I need to.
I have been to 33 states.
I have a brother.
I have lived in Washington, DC, New York, London and Austin, TX.
I will spend $24 on an expensive candle even if that means I have to eat at 7-11 for the next few days.
I work in a snow cone stand.
These are my truths, universally acknowledged.
First, I would like to point out that I actually really dig my job. Writing doesn't pay the bills yet so to supplement it with a cushy job where I make delicious treats all day isn't so bad. What is so bad? Dealing with the crazies.
Crazies, you see, are really only looking for an audience (aren't we all?). On public transportation, they are given a whole train car or bus of people to whom they can act out their elaborate fantasies or political muckraking. They catch you on the street corner where, in order to avoid them, you have to play that weird game where you both go the same way then switch directions but it's the same direction and eventually you just crack a smile and shrug your shoulders. Then, if you're feeling particularly wacky you say, "Thanks for the dance!" They show up in line behind you at the CVS, seemingly harmless until you ask them where they found the aluminum foil and they launch into a diatribe about how aluminum is the only thing keeping the satellites from controlling our thoughts. The thing about all of these situations? YOU CAN LEAVE. You can change train cars. You eventually win the dancing game. You can pretend you forgot to pick up dental floss, get out of the line and hide in the magazine aisle until the crazy with the aluminum foil has left. When you are stationed in an immobile food trailer in South Austin, you are stuck. You are a stationery audience of one and you just have to deal with it.
At this point, I would like to clarify my definition of crazy.
Crazy does not equal homeless.
Crazy does not equal alcoholic (although the two often go hand in hand, something for another entry).
Crazy does not actually equal crazy. It's just someone who is lonely or long winded (or, crazy) and feels that YOU are going to be the person upon whom they are going to heap their thoughts. As a journalist, the moment I say, "I'm a journalist"" 98% of the people I talk to say, "Oh wow. You know this one time..." and then launch into a tale (usually their own) that they think will make a good story. We all think we're important. We all think our thoughts and dreams and opinions are worthy of being heard, goddammit. The awful truth? They rarely are. This stupid story probably isn't even worth your time. Yet, here am I writing it.
So I am stuck. I am stuck in a hot trailer in South Austin right behind a bus stop where people loiter and smoke cigarettes and drink beers out of brown paper bags. But, you see, here is the thing about drinking beer out of paper bags at a bus stop in South Austin in the summer: the beers get hot. The beers get hot and when the person drinking the now hot beer sees that there is a stand advertising "Shaved Ice" parked directly behind them, a little lightbulb goes off. At least three times a day I have to shoo a drunk guy away from stand. He usually offers his own glass and says something like, "Y'all gaht ice hurr?"
Today was a day just like any other. I was sitting in my stand, trying to keep my hands raised above my heads so as not to exacerbate the sweat stains that were emanating from my arm pits when a man approached the window. He held out a dirty plastic cup and said,
"Y'all gaht ice hurr?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Can you fill this up for me? I'll give you a quarter."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I can't fill that up, it's against the health code."
(Now, I'm not actually sure if this is against the health code but the last thing I want to do is have to put my arms down to touch this guys filthy plastic cup.)
"I went to law school." he said.
"Really?" I asked.
"You're an idiot." he said. "Only idiots say 'really.' It's a redundant question."
"Really?" I asked.
"You know what you're problem is? You're an idiot. You don't read. Reading on the computer? That's not reading. Reading blogs isn't reading."
At this point, I was getting annoyed. A. Because I had to put my arms down when he called me an idiot cause he shocked me. B. Because he was drunk. C. Because he didn't laugh when said, "really" a second time and I HATE when my jokes bomb.
'Well," I said, "I'm a writer so I do tend to read quite a bit."
"Whatever. You're whole generation is a bunch of stupid idiots. Have you even ever seen this?!" At this point he held up a tattered, old copy of the Atlantic.
"The Atlantic?" I said, "Yeah, I've seen it. I think the New Yorker's better."
He stared at me.
"My sister is a professor at New York University," the drunk man said. "I don't talk to her though. I used to be a professor at Stanford."
Now, there is this little indie movie called "You've Got Mail" starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. In it, there is a scene where Ryan is writing an email to Hanks and she talks about how she can never come up with the correct insult at the right time. She always thinks of one too late. Hanks replies that he can ALWAYS think of a good insult and thinking of an insult isn't always all it's cracked up to be because you usually feel kind of bad and regret it. I usually have the later problem. And, because I was raised Irish Catholic, I feel the flagellating burn of guilt the moment the quip comes out of my mouth. It's a curse.
So to go back, the drunk man said, "My sister is a professor at New York University," the drunk man said. "I don't talk to her though. I used to be a professor at Stanford."
To which I replied, "Well, maybe you should head over to Stanford and ask for your job back."
The moment I said it I wanted to take it back. I wanted to take it back so badly. Even though this man called me an idiot, I didn't need to stoop to his level. I didn't need to say anything. I felt the first lash of the guilt whip against my back when the drunk guy looked right into my eye and said,
"You are a total asshole."
