Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
One of my co-vacationers is a retired schoolteacher. While his specialty and favorite were teaching six-graders, he taught a kindergarten class one year. One of the young students brought in his pet rat for show and tell. As the littles gathered around to ogle the rat, the teacher did a James Cagney impression, saying, “You dirty rat.” A child instantly leaned in and continued the Cagney impression, “You shot my mother.”
The teacher was flabbergasted. He asked the child, “Where did you learn that?”
The child replied, “That was in a Jim Carney movie.”
Of course, the Cagney quote never happened, except in the Jim Carney movie.
I watched a woman enter the coffee shop. She’s familiar to me as a semi-regular. Like me, in her late sixties, I think, she walks with direct, no-nonsense style. Her hair is short but neat, and her clothing matches that no-nonsense, low maintenance image. I wonder if that’s how she is — no nonsense, direct, practical. Or is this a facade? Does she walk like that because that’s how she wants to be, and not how she is?
Fun to imagine such a character like that. Reminds me of friends I’ve had. Intelligent and capable in one arena, they were disasters in other areas of their life. Yet others were methodical, practical, and organized in all facets of life.
Memory of a co-worker’s comment to me once springs up: “Your level of organization must drive your wife nuts.” They said that while I was organizing software packages.
No, my wife has never commented on it. But when I put something away, I can tell you exactly where it is. Which, as I think about it, is exactly like both Mom and Dad.
It was a weird juxtaposition.
I parked in the coffee shop’s lot. A silver SUV battle scar from its travels had the front passenger door open. I glanced that way. It seemed like the SUV was someone’s home. A woman was in the seat, her foot sticking out the open door, as she painted her toenails pink.
I thought of multiple things associated with painting nails. To feel and look attractive. Or maybe to fit in. To seem normal to others. You know, norms, values, mores, judgements. Or carrying forward from the past, trying to remain that person they were.
Then again, I could be all wrong. Might be that they’re not living in their car. They could just be a traveler, pausing to get coffee, taking advantage of a break in their schedule to do their nails.
It’s the kind of scene that inspires questions and thinking about our life and society.
One of the baristas seemed angry with him. He didn’t know why, but she appeared to act colder toward him, like he’d offended her. Searching his memories, he didn’t find a triggering episode. It could be other things, he told himself, like he’d imagined her being nicer and friendlier before, or he was imagining now that she was angry with him. Or, she might be upset with something happening in her life, and he’s just reading her interaction with him and misinterpreting it.
Really, though, while all of those were logically possible, it felt to him like she was angry with him, and that bothered him.
I was working with someone from RL. They weren’t my boss or in my chain but was a director. They came to me and said, “Hey, Mike, I’d like you to come with me on a business trip.” (He always called me Mike, when I’m one of those who goes by Michael.) I was surprised, a little flattered. He explained briefly that we were going to corporate headquarters. Then, we were side by side walking with our luggage, then, poof, we were there. Now it gets crazy.
I was wearing business casual but I’d brought a suit for some serious meetings. First I checked in. I disovered that my room, a large space with several beds, no closets but racks for clothes, and a large bathroom seemed to already be occupied. I thought that a little strange but guessed it was due to budget cutbacks. As I unpacked my clothes and hastened out go to meetings, a young woman dressed in shorts and halter tops.
After an awkward silence, I approached her and mentioned that I’d been assigned this room. Yes, she replied, she lived here. I clarified that she wasn’t just staying in the room for a meeting; no, she lived here with her co-worker. He arrived then, and we exchanged names. Then they started talking about their business while she took out an ironing board and iron and ironed clothes.
Outside, I discovered that I should be wearing a suit for this meeting, because I’d been in the same clothes for two days. Knowing I was due to be here three more days, I went back to the room. The other two weren’t there. I pulled out my suit. It had huge wrinkles on it. I found the iron but couldn’t fine the ironing board. Impatiently, I decided that I didn’t need it and dried ironing my suit on the bed. It wasn’t going well. As it progressed, the guy returned and watched me while he did other things. His presence flustered me.
After ironing it, I dropped my suit into a muddy puddle. Yes, our room’s floor was suddenly a pot-holed, cracked piece of asphalt. Trying to get mud off that part of the suit, I dipped another section and muddied it. I now discovered that I was doing this outside. It was cold and icy. My roommates came by and asked why I was ironing my suit outside. As I struggled to reply, they mentioned how strange it was to see someone wearing a suit. Neither of them ever wore one.
Dream end.
He was coughing, a dry cough from the bottom of his throat’s well.
Is it the coronavirus, or just the flu?
His nose was running (it hadn’t been this morning).
Is it an allergy (spring is in the air), or just a cold?
He was embarrassed because he couldn’t stop coughing (though he drank lots of water and sucked on a cough drop), thinking that the others were eyeing him (and several people had left).
Is it because of him, or is all of this just in his mind?
Impressions crept in on her, darkening her mood. His cell-like room felt dryer and hotter than she remembered the Sahara being. Negativity spiked from him like blackberry bramble thorns. When he spoke, words lurched out like they were freight cars in a train that didn’t have the engine for its load.
A man passed, and he thought with horror, that guy smells like he shit his pants.
She passed in a green skirt and bright, flowery sweater. The man grimaced as acrid body odor assaulted his nose, and then another went by — he didn’t see her — in the other direction, filling the air with stale cigarette smoke that could’ve been Pall Malls.
An anonymous person passed in a haze of sour milk. Another clumped past with big, heavy red boots and large, swinging red purse, leaving moth balls’ ammonia scents wafting behind her. Her smell battled a urine fragrance as a sagging-faced gray man passed, then the skunk of marijuana from a lithe and young dark-haired man drifted through in the opposite direction.
Then he trudged by with a dirty hair smell from his hooded green coat.
Standing to leave, the man wondered, what do people smell when I go by?
Michael Seidel, writer 