Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
When talking about people moving away or wanting them to move away, I often talk about how they're going to "On the moon, or whatever" and we'll never see them again.
Today, I was talking about friends who moved during the pandemic and Comrade said "You'll probably see them again." "Yea," I said. "It's not like they moved to the moon this time. They couldn't. Our passports aren't accepted there." Comrade furrowed his brow. "But our flag is there. That's Our Moon. We shouldn't need a passport to go there."
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My favorite part of Pandemic Mask Wearing is that it enables me to yawn repeatedly while someone who is Never Going To Buy Anything From Me tells me the complete history of every comic they've ever thought about purchasing.
"Do you come here often? Would you like to come here now?"
I'm lucky that I've had a job throughout the Pandemic. I go in four days a week, taking the T to meet my coworker, and then we drive to Beverly.
In March, I lost my Charlie card. The cards save about forty cents per trip. Experience had taught me that, short of going to Downtown Crossing during business hours, you can't get a Charlie Card anymore. For years, I've asked T attendants and been shot down. Since it's just one short trip a day, and I don't currently have to shell out for the commuter rail, I've just accepted it. Today, I bought my ticket, and In was stopped by a guy who was cleaning the windows. "You take the T every day, don't you?" "Pretty much." I said. "You're always reading cool graphic novels." I smiled but he couldn't see it because I was wearing a mask. He reached into his pocket. "Take my Charlie card. Do you know how to use it?" "Yea. I just lost mine a few months ago." "If you lose this one, let me know. I have dozens. They each have a couple of rides on them. And thanks for getting me to read Hellblazer." I had never spoken to this person before. It's been incredibly hot in the apartment (no AC, just a bunch of fans of various sizes), and today Comrade and I were both feeling particularly lazy. Like most people, when we get hot and lazy, our vocabularies dwindle, andwe communicate through vague nouns and random hand gestures.
He was working at his desk making a Pokerarium while I was confirming that just because I really enjoy most of Jonathan Hickman's Image work doesn't mean his Avengers run wasn't a tedious drizzle of continuity porn disguised as an interesting event comic. One of the giant fans was pointed at him and his desk. The other was pointed at me on the bed. Comrade got up and headed over to the bed, so we could watch the last Capaldi episode of Doctor Who on my continuity ("Twice Upon A Time" doesn't exist, after it aired it was eliminated from the time line so no one would ever have to suffer through it again). Comrade: "S'hot." Me: "Oh yea. Hot." He goes to lay down. I point at the fan. "Uhhhh. Hot?" He squints at me. "Hot." I say. Point at the fan, and then make a twirling gesture. Comrade turns around and begins to shimmy as some form of erotic dance. After about ten seconds, he smiles and begins to lay down. "That was great." I say. "But could you turn the fan around so we don't get too hot while we watch the show?" He turns the fan around "I. Am. Mortified." "And hot." I offer. "Mortified." Many of the people who came out to stores on the first day retail was open in MA were exactly the people nobody in retail wanted to see. Aggressive, arguing about mask policies, not respecting social distancing, not actually buying anything, just there to remind employees that people, at their core, are terrible.
This weekend, however, has been an absolute delight so far. Lots of parents with kids who are excited about being able to rejoin society (such as society is), everyone with masks and optimism. So far, my favorite interaction was a mom and her eightish year old kid. She had told him not to get too excited, and to carefully look at the books unti he knew exactly which one he wanted. Less than ten seconds later I heard. "OH MY GOD! THEY HAVE AN 'I AM KIRK' BOOK! THIS IS THE GREATEST STORE EVER. WE HAVE TO GET THIS RIGHT NOW!" It was the mom. Today was our first day open since the quarantine order in March, and all of our customers were great. We even started the day with a mom who called looking to loiter with her kids and have them read graphic novels, and she specifically stated that they would all be wearing masks, so I had high hopes.
Unfortunately, they didnt show up. But we did have a man who came in looking for Grateful Dead posters announce that he used to live in Beverly fifty years ago "when it was better", and announce that, since we didn't have a public bathroom, "I guess you just want to see a 72 year old man shit in the street." I didn't. And still don't. But it did feel like some of the old Harvard Square/Quincy magic had ill breezed through the otherwise wonderful store. The app that I use to buy stoner groceries has started carrying "adult health care items" such as The Eggplant Emojibater: a vibrating Eggplant dildo that comes in a box that says "Go Fuck Yourself, Literally."
Customers who bought the emojibater also bought A Dozen Eggs, KY Liquid Lubricant, Ben and Jerry's Half Baked Ice Cream, Gushers, and coat hangers. That sounds like somebody had an amazing weekend. ,It turns out that two months of quarantine doesn't magically make the tone deaf wannabe musicians upstairs any more talented. One of them is still banging around on the piano while the other alternated between playing the recorder or singing, two skills they have never possessed and never will never possess.
Apart from a possible career recording shred videos for Youtube in 2012, I can't imagine what benefit their continued abuse of instruments does. It doesn't even seem to relax them or assist them in having a good time. They seem to be as frustrated by their incompetence as everyone else in the building. But that won't stop them from singing the same four note progression, or continuing to flatly exhale to the rhythm of Hot Crossed Buns. For revenge purposes, I've been looking at bagpipes online but they are prohibitively expensive. As they should be. I have a writing project I need to work on, but first Comrade and I will have a late breakfast.
Ok, the water has boiled over slightly, dampening one burner, and this has, somehow rendered all the burners useless, while not impacting the oven. No problem, I'll just use some matches to .... There are no matches or lighters in the house. Is Comrade the first person I've dated for more than a month that doesn't smoke? Comrade and I decide to have some cereal for breakfast and watch some Brooklyn 99. About three minutes into the episode, a wasp and a bumblebee find their way into the apartment. Selina is delighted. Motherfucker doesn't pay attention. Comrade and I briefly try and figure out a way to open the window without interacting with wasp and bumblebee before leaving the house to go buy a lighter for the stove and Raid for the flying pests. Not to be mixed. Bread is purchased. Provolone is purchased. Milk is purchased. A grill lighter is purchased. Wasp, Yellowjacket & Hornet Killer is purchased. An Ignorance of Bros hang out by the corner of the store, less than two feet apart not wearing masks. I consider spraying them with Raid. I read the packaging on the Raid and realize it will be super unhelpful as it is an outdoor spray and would be dangerous even to incredibly intelligent cats. Selina would be doomed. Knowing my feeling on wasps and hornets, Comrade volunteers to go in to try and "Rambo those bastards. Oops, is that hate speech?" (This is a Dr. Bobby joke that has somehow crossed over to Comrade, even though the two have never met, or even talked to each other.) I sit in the hallway, looking at my phone while I hear sporadic noises from the apartment. Soon, Comrade comes out of the apartment in goggles, his facemask, and oven gloves, holding a balled up paper towel, which he carries outside. Thus is the bumblebee reintroduced to the wild. Comrade pulls of his facemask when he comes back in. "Selina is useless. The wasp was having trouble flying when I went in, and she was just looking at it real close. Not even trying to paw it, just watching it hover and fall. I whacked it with the paper towel roll, but it escaped into the shades for a few seconds before reemerging. Then I whacked it to death with the paper towel roll. Want to see it?" No. It has now been about two hours since I set out to get some writing done. The cereal is, of course, ruined, even if I didn't suspect it had been massively tampered with by the sting bros. But I have a lighter, and, lo, I manage to reignite the stove. First, however, I have to pick up the kitchen since someone (and Comrade swears it was Selina, while we were out) has destroyed the kitchen by first knocking over the trash can, and then distributing the trash to the previously garbage deficient portions of the kitchen. By the time the kitchen is cleaned, and the now late lunch is prepared, the writing is no longer on the schedule. The wasp's descendents will be hearing from my lawyers re: lost wages. Oh shit. The wasp's descendents are my lawyers? This seems weirdly famliar. |
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