Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
I woke up on Saturday to the same waist-high pile of snow that everyone else in Boston did. I threw on my hat and gloves, picked up my shovel, and began digging out. All around me, neighbors were digging. Mostly it was three or four people with shovels taking care of the spot in front of their house, and their driveway. I live in a corner house, and thus, had to dig out the front porch, the front walkway, the street in front of the house, the street to the left of the house, and the back porch. No big.
Everyone in the neighborhood appeared to have woken up at the same time. adults were digging, children were fwomping in the snow piles, plows were clearing out parking lots, and across the street, the group of guys who smoke so much weed that when I open the windows, you can smell it in my living room, were sitting on their porch (which was still covered in snow), drinking, and watching everyone else dig. Because the top foot and half or so of snow was the nice powdery kind, it only took me about an hour and a half to dig all the way from front door to the back. Adults were still shoveling, kids were still fwomping, and the guys across the street appeared to be laughing (I had headphones on). As I headed back around the house toward the front door, I saw them waving at me. I walked across the street, pulling out my earbuds. "Hey, man." said the most drunk/stoned looking one. "Can you dig out our car?" I laughed because, of course, they’re kidding, and being high and neighborly. "No, for real." said the one who walks out to the street at 2 AM to talk to people who drive by the house. I’m sure he’s just complimenting people on their rides and not selling them any of the copious amounts of weed that he burns…for warmth. "We’ll give you ten bucks." I laughed again. ”A hundred.” Two laughed. The one who offered me ten bucks did not. ”Ten bucks.” I shook my head. ”I sold my car when I moved to Boston so I wouldn’t have to deal with parking or snow emergencies. And I don’t need ten dollars. Try one of the kids that lives” and, here, I had to look up and down the street because I had no idea where the kids in the neighborhood lived, “there.” The dude stared at me. ”I asked you.” "I said no." I laughed. "Good luck." And I put my headphones back in, and walked back toward my house. My headphones are the lovely, noise-canceling variety, so, while I could see he was still talking to me, I have no idea what he was saying. I’m guessing it wasn’t "Have a nice day." As of this morning, his car was still completely covered in the, now wet and therefore impossible to shovel, snow.
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Loiterer: Are you listening to a Marilyn Monroe song?
Me: No. This is Jessica Rabbit. Loiterer: Same thing, just different blonde. Me: Jessica Rabbit wasn’t a blonde, she was a redhead. Loiterer: A bottle-red. Me: An ink-bottle-red. Jessica Rabbit is a cartoon. Loiterer: What? Me: Her last name is Rabbit because she was married to one. Loiterer: I don’t know what to say to that. I’m waiting for a burger at Tasty Burger, and a couple of students are passing a laptop back and forth. ”How do you even make a pdf?” One of them asks.
The other passes the laptop over him and says, “Look it up.” First guy shrugs and starts typing. ”DUDE!” He says “What the fuck?” "What?" Second guy asks. "Why, when I type in ‘How do you make’ into Google does it suggest ‘How do you make your shit smell better’?" I was laughing too hard to hear the answer. And then my food was ready. When I got back to the store I typed “How do you” into Google. It suggested “How do you make french toast”. I don’t think our computers are on the same wavelength. Near the end of a shift that started some time during the Adams administration (I can’t remember if it was John Adams or John Quincy Adams…it’s been that sort of day), the phone rings. I am standing on top of a ladder with the phone in my pocket because I’ve just got done inventorying the books in the window for my boss. “Store Name Redacted, how may I help you?”
"Greg?" says a familiar voice. "Nope. Adam." I do not point out that there is no one here named Greg, and that he’s been calling one of my coworkers the wrong name for over a decade. Why do I not point this out? Because it’s Ask Me How Guy. "Any books coming out this week?" He asks. "Lots." I say. He likes to call every few days and ask about all the books I’ve read. He hasn’t bought a book here since the Bush administration (I can’t remember if it was George Walker Bush of Georger Herbert Walker Bush…it’s been that sort of lifetime), and I don’t feel like talking to him. "Is there a particular one you need to know about?" "I’m sorry." he says. But he doesn’t mean it. "Long day?" "Same amount of hours as every day." I say. He laughs. “Do you like basketball?” I know I’m going to regret answering this. “Yes.” "It’s been an important day for basketball fans everywhere. Ask me why." Damn. It. I do not ask why. I do not engage. I consider hanging up the phone. "Because Dennis Rodman is in Korea. What do you think the short little slant eyes think of that?" I now feel justified in hanging up the phone, so I do. My coworker hears me let out a loud sigh. “Everything ok?” I explain the conversation I just had. “All he had to say was ‘Did you hear Dennis Rodman is in North Korea? That’s crazy.’ and we’ve had an acceptable conversation, but he HAS to insert racism into everything.” "Yea. That’s rough." She says. "Is there a reason you needed to have your last three conversations on a ladder?" Near the end of a shift that started some time during the Adams administration (I can’t remember if it was John Adams or John Quincy Adams…it’s been that sort of day), the phone rings. I am standing on top of a ladder with the phone in my pocket because I’ve just got done inventorying the books in the window for my boss. “Comic Book Store, how may I help you?”
"Greg?" says a familiar voice. "Nope. Adam." I do not point out that there is no one here named Greg, and that he’s been calling one of my coworkers the wrong name for over a decade. Why do I not point this out? Because it’s Ask Me How Guy. "Any books coming out this week?" He asks. "Lots." I say. He likes to call every few days and ask about all the books I’ve read. He hasn’t bought a book here since the Bush administration (I can’t remember if it was George Walker Bush of Georger Herbert Walker Bush…it’s been that sort of lifetime), and I don’t feel like talking to him. "Is there a particular one you need to know about?" "I’m sorry." he says. But he doesn’t mean it. "Long day?" "Same amount of hours as every day." I say. He laughs. “Do you like basketball?” I know I’m going to regret answering this. “Yes.” "It’s been an important day for basketball fans everywhere. Ask me why." Damn. It. I do not ask why. I do not engage. I consider hanging up the phone. "Because Dennis Rodman is in Korea. What do you think the short little slant eyes think of that?" I now feel justified in hanging up the phone, so I do. My coworker hears me let out a loud sigh. “Everything ok?” I explain the conversation I just had. “All he had to say was ‘Did you hear Dennis Rodman is in North Korea? That’s crazy.’ and we’ve had an acceptable conversation, but he HAS to insert racism into everything.” "Yea. That’s rough." She says. "Is there a reason you needed to have your last three conversations on a ladder?" Tonight, for the first time in the history of comic book stores, a kid came in and asked if we had any Family Circus books.
We did not. Apart from the child screaming “I WANT TO TOUCH THINGS!!!! LET ME TOUCH THEM!!! I WANT TO TOUCH ALL THE BOOKS!!!”, it had been a quiet night in the comic book store.
I was waiting for the phone to ring doom, for Rodney Dangerfield to come in and tell me how frustrated he was that dames didn’t get him. I was not prepared, however, for the tapping, the slow heavy breathing descending the stairs. I was in a monster movie. This was clearly the first appearance of Jason Vorhees or Michael Meyers. The heads of two Grazing Loiterers swiveled like anxious gazelles. I actually stopped my task of entering comics into the computer to watch what I couldn’t imagine would be a person come around the corner. "An Asian, a Black man, and a Native American walk into a bar. Who wins?" "I have no context for your question." I say, a helpless smile plastered to my face. "The Asian kicks everybody’s ass. Hi-ya!" "Is that your version of Hello?" I ask. "President Romney got into office." He says. "No, actually he lost." One of the loiterers puts down the book he was reading and exits. "Ask me how." He says. "Ask you how what?" "How Romney got into office." Sigh. ”How?” "He raped the Blacks, killed the Asians, and taxed the white people." he laughs. "And we still elected him." No we didn’t. "You smile a lot." he says. "Are you Irish? Scottish?" "Sure." "The Irish are on the right, the Scottish are on the left. The British hate the Asians. Ask me why." I shouldn’t ask him but “Why?” "Because Native Americans are the new Blacks." he laughs. The remaining loiterer approaches the counter. Cautiously. "Are you ready to leave?" I ask. "Oh, yes." he says. "And then some." "I’m sorry." says the now Polite Horrible Racist. "You keep smiling, though. I had a phone bill last month. Ask me how much." "Two hundred dollars." I sigh. "More." "How much?" I grit my teeth. "Four thousand dollars." I can’t fathom how one would rack up a four thousand dollar phone bill but I suspect it involves many hours on 900 sex lines saying things like “I’m about to take my pants off. Ask me how.” "Ask me how." "You called a lot of people." I sigh. I also hand the books over to the remaining gazelle. He gives me money, and walks to the door. When he gets behind The Polite Horrible Racist, he makes the universal This Dude Is Crazy wide-eyed stare with loopy finger movements near the ear. "On. The. Nose." Polite Horrible Racist says. "I have to be careful, though, my phone and my computer are encrypted. My dad was a marine, and my brother was a Navy Seal, so they’re after me." At this point, I’m posting a vague reference to this person on Facebook. I’m hoping one of my friends can come into the store to verify that I am not making this person up. Because if I wasn’t talking directly to this person, I wouldn’t believe he was real. "Ask me why." "Why." And this loops into more things about Asians and Blacks (of which, he is one). More conspiracies about who is bugging his phone and approximately four thousand times he says "Ask me" question word. About four minutes before we close, my friend Kurt comes in. He has just moved a bunch of his stuff into storage, and will be crashing on my couch for a few days. On his first trip down, he has carried in a giant television. This does not go unnoticed by PHR. "You putting in a TV." He asks. "Yeup." says Kurt, and goes back upstairs to get more of his stuff. "Why did he bring a TV in the store?" PHR asks. "Everyone does these days. It’s all the rage." I say. Kurt comes back in with a suitcase and a large trashbag. "What are you doing?" PHR asks. "I live here." Kurt says, and goes back up the stairs. "Does he live upstairs?" PHR asks me. But before I can answer, Kurt is back with one more bag. “Nope. I live here. In the store.” "O….k." I like that it is his turn to be the confused party in the conversation. Then his eyes brighten again, and he says to Kurt, “You should make a movie.” "I don’t have any money." Kurt says. "Ben Affleck and Matt Damon could make a movie with you.." he smiles. "O…k." And now it’s Kurt’s turn to be confused. "Or Brad could be in it. Brad who’s married to Angelina Joe Lee." (His pronunciation not mine.) "Did you hear he has a new movie?" Kurt and I say “No.” simultaneously. "He plays Le Pew." PRH says, smiling. We both look confused. "Because his name is Pitt, and Pitts smell, P-U!" he laughs. "Stinky." We both look unimpressed. "I’m about to close." I say. "You should really make a movie, though." he says to Kurt. "I don’t even own a camera." PHR says “Buy one.” Kurt says “I live in a comic book store.” Which is, just so you remember, not at all true. PHR smiles. ”Ever since Disney and Marvel and DC bought Hollywood, everything is Chinese.” Which is, in case you also have had a traumatic brain injury impairing your knowledge of the world, not at all true. "Sure." I say. "I have to close now." "So he’s your bodyguard?" PHR asks, nodding his head at Kurt. "Sure." I say. "You should get a Chinese woman. Hi-ya!" he laughs. "Good luck to all of you. Good night." "Yea." I say. "Good luck with…things." He pauses at the door. Points at the poster of Nova, “See. Disney is owned by The Chinese and that’s why Nova looks all Chinese now.” Which, in case you have never seen an image of Nova, is not at all true. He didn’t buy anything. |
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