cornered in the staff with red curtains
Inside Target was misting the spittle of David Lynch, no doubt about it. Things turned a slight skew sharp of F during my lunch time yesterday.
Not enough on my list to warrant pushing around a cart—yet no baskets were available—I made a cradle with my arms and began piling. I often do things the hard way. I had just collected some feminine products and a bottle of vitamins when around the corner came someone I recognized.
[My eyes’ corners caught the face. White teeth gleamed from orange-brown skin. Searching, searching… The face found a match in my brain. Hi I shouted. He in a similar skittish shout made Hi. My brain sped into frenia: oh god small-talk social interaction at the store I hate small talk what to say say hi should I stop or go on how well do I know this person does it warrant stopping I say how are you he says how are you I start to say more GYNECOLOGIST my new gynecologist is at Target I was planning on calling the office later I almost said I’m going to call you later no that sounds like we’re dating]
We were both caught in this moment, excited to see someone familiar and then stunned at how familiar.
You’re shopping here too, he said. Stating the obvious was really the best move.
It’s my lunch time, I said.
An additional second of pause choked either side of each line each of us spoke. That man has had his head and hands in between my thighs and that is all he knows of me. His seeing me in Target with a box of tampons and a bottle of vitamins seemed an imbalance in the planets. Naked reverb. I walked away, pile in the cradle, and he with his cart in the other direction.
Crossing the store, arms full, goal: dish drainers. An old old lady came slowly but surely at me. At me. Dressed in pale pink and topped with white white hair, Are you a customer, she insisted, medicated eyes blue-boring through my T-zone.
Yes, I am, I confirmed certainly.
With a slow shake of the head and a deep breath in she said, I’m so sorry.
I laughed. I mean I said, It's ok. Or I did both of these things.
And then I held her hand in mine and asked her to tell me about her girlhood in America, about a time when there was no McDonald's, Target, Starbucks or Wal-Mart, and everybody's luggage was delightfully standard with a unique floral pattern on the inside. We drove to a bar and over whiskey sours wept. All office jobs disappeared like warts, and the two of us spent the rest of the day dueting the world's great musical. White squirrels grouped to form a chorus. People died naturally when the song cued it so. And it was good.
It's really ok. Sometimes my arms bend back and fireflies enter my bedroom at night. Sometimes there is a circus during the day. Sometimes I return to work, pink ribbons flickering in the corners, where music is always in the air and that gum I like is back in style. And paralysis resolves itself in a squeak.
Not enough on my list to warrant pushing around a cart—yet no baskets were available—I made a cradle with my arms and began piling. I often do things the hard way. I had just collected some feminine products and a bottle of vitamins when around the corner came someone I recognized.
[My eyes’ corners caught the face. White teeth gleamed from orange-brown skin. Searching, searching… The face found a match in my brain. Hi I shouted. He in a similar skittish shout made Hi. My brain sped into frenia: oh god small-talk social interaction at the store I hate small talk what to say say hi should I stop or go on how well do I know this person does it warrant stopping I say how are you he says how are you I start to say more GYNECOLOGIST my new gynecologist is at Target I was planning on calling the office later I almost said I’m going to call you later no that sounds like we’re dating]
We were both caught in this moment, excited to see someone familiar and then stunned at how familiar.
You’re shopping here too, he said. Stating the obvious was really the best move.
It’s my lunch time, I said.
An additional second of pause choked either side of each line each of us spoke. That man has had his head and hands in between my thighs and that is all he knows of me. His seeing me in Target with a box of tampons and a bottle of vitamins seemed an imbalance in the planets. Naked reverb. I walked away, pile in the cradle, and he with his cart in the other direction.
Crossing the store, arms full, goal: dish drainers. An old old lady came slowly but surely at me. At me. Dressed in pale pink and topped with white white hair, Are you a customer, she insisted, medicated eyes blue-boring through my T-zone.
Yes, I am, I confirmed certainly.
With a slow shake of the head and a deep breath in she said, I’m so sorry.
I laughed. I mean I said, It's ok. Or I did both of these things.
And then I held her hand in mine and asked her to tell me about her girlhood in America, about a time when there was no McDonald's, Target, Starbucks or Wal-Mart, and everybody's luggage was delightfully standard with a unique floral pattern on the inside. We drove to a bar and over whiskey sours wept. All office jobs disappeared like warts, and the two of us spent the rest of the day dueting the world's great musical. White squirrels grouped to form a chorus. People died naturally when the song cued it so. And it was good.
It's really ok. Sometimes my arms bend back and fireflies enter my bedroom at night. Sometimes there is a circus during the day. Sometimes I return to work, pink ribbons flickering in the corners, where music is always in the air and that gum I like is back in style. And paralysis resolves itself in a squeak.
5 Comments:
it's strange how reality can be rendered so surreal. and in target, even.
it is strange. i wonder if it was I or they who made the strange. in target, even.
I had a similar experience once. Only instead of my gynecologist, it was a worker at the Subway sandwich shop near my old office. And instead of Target, it was on a bus. And instead of awkwardly conversing, we pretended to completely ignore each other. (luckily for me this guy never had anything of his even close to 'between my thighs')!
i'm glad the subway guy was never between your thighs. sometimes i forget that people exist outside where i normally see them. which is probably good.
I feel like some of these people who work in supermarkets & local shops, people I now recognize, probably recognize me too since there are not many Chinese guys who look like me in these areas. Yet either they pretend like they don't or they refuse to act any more friendly to me. Only minority workers tend to act nicer to me.
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