I don't know how my phone got lost under my suitcase. It's as though I was being called away. This is why I didn't get your message. That, and you didn't leave me a message.
Stupid amorphous you.
It's too morning for consciousness. And I am thirsty for something my house can't satiate, so I head down to the pharmacy. Five AM and there's a line full of driftwood. The Pakistani woman with the carriage filled with six packs of soda bottles, the dancing nic fixer who is obviously broken and handfilled with Pringles cans, the probably heroin addict with the two bottles of Cookies & Cream milkshakes. I don't know how these people are my brethren.
I grab a bottle of juice from the cooler, and a prepaid phone card and get in line. There are three registers. One is working fine, a Pakistani cashier waits on the Pakistani customer who wants a million different coupons, a rain check, and more soda. The elderly woman working the next register is on the verge of tears because the receipt paper is jammed and she can't fix it and the broken nic fixer is chock full of nail biting and "Are you gonna fucken help me here or what?". And the third register is open. There's a third cashier who has spent at least three minutes trying to open a garbage bag. She is not helping anyone. And the phone is ringing. No one is answering the phone. "Seriously," ring "are you gonna fucken help me?" And the probably heroin addict is talking to himself. I hear only the words fucker, late, bitch, and shampoo.
I just want to pay for my drink and card with a rain check. I'm tired and need a sleep fix, ring. But I'm not broken. See, things are okay. It's too morning, sure, but last night I met a probably boyfriend who makes my ears ring.
"This is bullshit. Why won't anyone" ring "help me?" Because you're a bitch. It's late. You're a fucker. I don't know how shampoo fits into this, you'll have to ask the heroin addict. Ring.
The Pakistani cashier rings up the Pakistani woman, then asks the elderly cashier to write out the customer's rain checks while she tries to "are you gonna fucken help me or" ring "what?" fix the receipt paper.
The probably heroin addict leaves his milkshake on the floor and walks outside. "This is" ring "bullshit."
The nic fixer has bitten all her nails off. A man walks in and asks her what's, ring, taking so long. She points at the cashiers. "No one will" ring "fucken help me."
The third cashier is still trying to open the, ring, trash bag.
"ENOUGH!" And nic fixer throws her Pringles can at the man who just walked in and leaves. This is, ring, naturally when the cashier fixes the receipt paper and smiles at me. "I believe you were next." And she's right.
On my way home, I pass the probably heroin addict. I am wearing headphones, but not actually listening to any music, having already determined my house is three "Since You've Been Gone"s from the pharmacy. And I don't need music, I'm, ring, next.
"Fuckers never answered the phone." The addict says, and I think he's probably, ring, right. "I know you can hear me. Think I don't know you're not listening to" ring "fucken music."
I'm troubled by how well insane people and addicts know me. Like the guy in Harvard Square who stopped me on my way to being stood up by a date, who said "Don't cross Jennifer Love Hewitt, she's not worth it, and the bitch will fucken kill you."
I have no, ring, plans to cross JLH, but I think he was just talking about Love, not Jennifer, not Hewitt. Don't cross love or that bitch will, ring, kill you. And he's, ring, right.
And I'm back home and typing this, ring, entry. My head is still ringing from the first sex I've had in a while that didn't result in a bad_sex entry. I don't know how to answer it, and amorphous you refuse to leave a message. I'm troubled by my complete inability to type the word cashier properly on the first try. My sleep is broken. My dreams are driftwood. I am on the verge of ring. Call me. I promise I'll answer in the morning.