Hair In My Food

I’m alone at the deli counter eating my salad.  So close to the window, I’m getting blasted by the sun.  It’s too hot but I refuse to move.  This is Buffalo, there aren’t many days like this.  Looking out to the street I think “What are all these people doing on Hertel Avenue anyway?”  I have no answer for myself so I return to my lunch.  I feel energized by the freshness of the food. 

A thought pops into my head: “It’s as futile as wondering why people are so easily offended.  You’d have to stick a dagger in me to offend me.”  And then an unrelated thought: “Sometimes you just expect an ex-girlfriend to come back to haunt you.”  I’ve never been able to control the thoughts in my head.  When I get back to my salad I notice a hair in my food.  On most days I would throw the salad away, or puke, but on this day I figure a hair won’t hurt me so I eat around it.  It’s time to go so I head for the exit and get in my car. 

I drive by Snowden Mansion on Nottingham Terrace, renowned for its owner’s deviant occupation.  “So this is what a strip club buys you?”  I say out loud, thinking of my little house, and wondering if working a conventional job is overrated.  I quickly decide that it is. 

I drive toward the highway nearly blinded by the sun but manage a glimpse of a super huge cloud with a plane flying through it.  I wonder if this is the world coming to an end.  I also wonder if my tire is about to explode and if I will crash before I reach the highway.  Just more thoughts in my head.

I make it to work in one piece but the energy from my lunch has already worn off.  If life could be Tuesday morning all the time I’d be fine but unfortunately it doesn’t work that way.  By the time I get to Wednesday I’m out of steam.  Now I remember why I wrote a play called “Phlegmatic Fever.” 

I walk into my office thinking about freedom.  I believe that freedom is walking your dog in the morning sunshine with no job to go to afterward.  I don’t have a dog but I do have a job that I have to go to most days.  I do have a few hours tomorrow morning before I have to be anywhere.  I guess that’s the closest I can get to freedom.

THE END

Author's note: I wrote this a long time ago. 

Love on the Side of the Road

Driving to my parents' house in Niagara Falls, New York, once the honeymoon capital of the world, I saw a filthy truck with an even filthier stuffed animal affixed to it. A man sat in the driver's seat with the window rolled down, on the side of the road. He was selling flowers. Is this what love has come to? Love on the side of the road? Man, I wish I made country music for a living, because that's a basis for a hit song if I ever knew one. I almost stopped to ask his permission to take a picture of him and his temporary small business that sells love in a truck, but I decided not to bother him. The guy was just trying to make a buck. I bet he'll have some customers. Yesterday, the guy behind me at the grocery store slammed a cheap vase with a few flowers in it onto the conveyor belt, along with a card. He seemed pretty pissed about the whole thing. Maybe he was just trying to play it cool.

Meanwhile, my four-year-old is getting socialized to buy into Valentine's Day. He had to make cards for all his classmates at preschool, all the boys and girls. Times have changed. Back in my day it was feast or famine, either you were the type of kid to get a lot of valentines or none, so you could find a bunch of cards waiting for you or end up like Charlie Brown. My little guy had fun making valentines for everyone in his class. With help from socialization agents--school, family, friends, and media--I'm sure he'll be a Valentine's Day pro someday. I just hope he doesn't buy love on the side of the road.

The End