We know something you don't know. . .that makes us better
Well, this is another week, I suppose, with lots of things to talk about. Funny thing is I don't really care to speak about any of those things. So, here's my attempt at a short story instead.
"The usual?" she asked.
"Um. . .sure, I'll have that I guess."
She smiled and walked away, and he sighed as he looked out the window. So many people, all of them with such purpose. As the cars passed by, he tried to make believe that he was them. He always wished he could be someone else, anyone else, just so he could find out what the secret was. What could possibly drive so many people to action? Everyday, the same rut, and all for what? The emptiness that he'd felt inside so many times? He sighed again and continued watching. He noticed a sporty little red car, with a thirtysomething executive, cool shades in place, music modestly playing. Was he going home to his wife, or maybe meeting his secretary for drinks at a dive away from his neighborhood. Or maybe not. Maybe he was the type who didn't cheat simply because it was inconvenient. Too much too lose. The waitress placed his glass of lemonade on the table and two straws. He smiled at her, mumbled thank you, and begin fumbling around in his pockets looking for his medicine. Mind numbing stuff really. He wasn't sure why he took it, just that his doctor said it would help calm him. The pills slid down his throat, and he looked back out the window. Now there was a little bright pink coupe outside. The music from this car was definitely not discreet or modest, but loudly played, as if for the enjoyment for everyone else. The woman, well really the girl, inside was dancing, swaying, jerking rhythmically to what she considered apparently moving music. She was probably headed out to the mall, to cruise around with Daddy's credit card, no doubt doing her part to make sure that this economy of ours doesn't falter due to consumer disinterest. A platter of eggs was slid in front of him, with another plate of bacon and biscuits, then finally a bowl of grits. He begin unwrapping his fork, and then looked up once more at the waitress and smiled. She smiled back, and as she walked away, he wondered what motivated her? Did she have three kids and deadbeat alcholic husband who beat her? Well, maybe not three, one would a stretch of the imagination. She was so slim. And he'd never seen her bruised. He cut a deliberately precise square of butter and placed it on top of the grits. Maybe she was just working this job on the side, as she tried to become an actress, or pay off loans. Either way, it was really none of his concern. Maybe he should try minding his own business for a change. As he began eating his food, he could feel a conscious desire to ask her about herself, but it was almost as if. . .he looked at the bottle of medicine on the table. Maybe that was why suddenly he didn't care. He looked down at his plate of eggs and noticed that it was almost pulsating, throbbing, and he pushed it away. She came back by to fill his lemonade glass, and looking at him, realized something was wrong right away. She slid into the booth and looked at him.
"Are you okay, you don't look so well. Should I call a doctor?"
He looked at her as if she were foreign. She wanted to know if he was okay. Of course, he was okay. Wasn't he? He looked back at the bottle of medicine, and reading the label, was unsurprised to find that it was the correct prescription. "I'm fine, I just realized that, you know, I come in here every morning just about, and I sit here, and I eat the same thing, and I leave the same amount in tips, and everything is so familiar, but. . .I don't even know your name."
"Yes, your name. . .I never. . .I never was concerned. . .or maybe I was, or maybe I wasn't and I didn't realize I was, I don't know. I know this sounds like I have a problem, like I'm mental or something, or maybe like I'm drunk or over medicated. . ."
"No, no. . .no one who comes in here ever really just asks my name. I mean, guys do, a lot, but not like this. Most of them want my number before they want my name, but you. . . you really want my name?"
"Um. . . yes. . .yes I do."
She blushed a bit self-consciously, and rose suddenly.
"I really need to get back to work, you know. These tables aren't going to bus themselves."
"Wait, I'm not coming on to you, or anything I just. . .I just want to know your name."
"Well. . ." she paused. He looked nice enough, actually rather attractive, but he was always in here. What if he were a stalker who was waiting to pounce on her when her back was turned? She looked out the window at the plane passing overhead, and then back down at him. He was staring at the plane too, with a far away look in his eye, as if he were dreaming some pleasant dream. She wondered if she were in it somehow.
". . .my name is Alice, actually."
"Um. . .yeah. . .look I gotta go."
"Okay, nice to meet you Alice."
Her name was Alice. He got up to leave, and reached in his pocket for three dollars. Well, maybe four this time, he thought, as he left a five on the table. She'll. . .Alice. . .will definitely put this too good use.
Why Bother - Juice Mouse Cypher (formerly Juice Mouse Zero)
Kinda tired really. . .