Mopping

The man mopping the floors was insane. The coffee shop was empty except for the girl at the counter, the insane man mopping the floors, my wife, me, and our two friends Frank and Gail. It was 3:38pm. We were all finished ordering, seated at a table in the giant empty dining room. The girl was still at the counter. The insane man was still mopping. It was quiet and dimly lit. The quiet was composed of our conversation, the sound of the mop, and the lamentations of the girl at the counter. The quiet was periodically interrupted by outbursts from the insane man. He sporadically yelled at the front window as though there were people standing on the other side of it. There clearly were not. Moreover, it was impossible to discern exactly what it was that he was yelling at them.

Eventually, there came a point when I needed to piss. I heard our insane mopping companion working in the general vicinity of the restrooms in the back. He had apparently grown weary of the invisible people on the other side of the front window. I had to risk the interaction. I departed the table, heading for the men’s room. As I got closer, it became obvious that he was in the men’s room, singing loudly. Neither the melody nor the lyrical content could be determined. I opened the door and entered. He had stopped cleaning the men’s room, to sing into the mirror, quite intimately. His face was three inches from it as he leaned across the sink, singing loudly. My entrance into the room startled him immediately, and I felt terrible for disturbing his masturbatory serenade. He smiled widely and began a fast, garbled explanation that I couldn’t understand. I backed out of the men’s room, not having pissed or understood a word of his explanation except for the last six words, which were, “…and they’re not cheering for anybody.” I returned to my seat, bladder still aching. A few minutes later, I saw him emerge, sit, and begin smoking. So I went back and pissed without incident. It was beautiful. The relief was unexplainable. I returned to my seat and the conversation between my wife and friends.

More time elapsed. He quit smoking and disappeared. There was no audible singing. My wife decided this would be a safe time to make her trip to the bathroom, as coffee goes through everybody pretty quickly. Her account entailed her entry into an empty women’s room and an empty stall. This was soon followed by the sound of approaching footsteps out in the hall, and the sound of the insane man’s singing. He knocked on the door. It must have been time to clean the women’s room. My wife shouted that she was in there. She got a retort that, much like the one I had received, was indecipherable. At this point, the girl behind the counter intervened, corralling him away from the women’s room. Neither myself nor our two friends sitting at the table were aware of either of these events. Our table was out of earshot. I was only aware because I was told by her later.

There were no further incidents. He must have cleaned the women’s room. As we all left, he was seated and smoking again. He smiled and said, “Have a good day.” It was the clearest thing he had said yet. We all returned the sentiment.

Tar and Chewing Tobacco

The road is magical tonight. The show we just saw was great. One o’clock in the morning and a long drive ahead of us, Cleveland to Pittsburgh. It smells like fresh tar and chewing tobacco. I smell like I’ve been drinking, and I have, a lot. My wife hasn’t, and she’s the one driving. Don’t make assumptions, asshole. Fines are doubled in construction zones in the state of Pennsylvania. It’s the law. Not that you can speed anyway, when three lanes are funneled down into one. Horses and barrels line it all with their blinking yellow eyes and white and orange stripes. I don’t have to work tomorrow. So I can enjoy the moment, the air, and the music. We are going home, but we’re not in a hurry. Soon we’ll hit a rest spot and get some scalding hot black coffee. I’m in heaven.

Tattooed Bartender

The bartender looked good. Big surprise, right? I’m kind of predictable that way. She was very thoroughly tattooed. She had one half-sleeve and a great deal of patchwork on the other arm. Intense stuff too. Looked like H.R. Giger’s work in black and white. Nice and curvy, she was just mildly overweight, blond hair, bright purple eye shadow, a ring in her lip, spider web tights, and a “Possessed” t-shirt. She looked like she could break up a fight. Doubtless she has, on more than one occasion. She looked to be just over 30. I was smitten at first glance. She was a knockout. Most of the office was there. Shawn got a new job, and this was his going away party. He was a good guy. Everybody mingled and circulated throughout the bar. None of my co-workers seemed impressed with her. I didn’t get it. I’m not sure how you could see her as anything short of stunning, though I’m sure they all thought she was scummy and/or dirty, if they even noticed her at all. Whatever. I’m sure she was leading a fuller, happier, more interesting life than any one of them, or any number of them combined. She had soul by the boatload. I wanted to go talk to her, though I feared I’d look antisocial if I just sat with the bartender. I might have also had to answer some questions later that I just wouldn’t feel like answering. They all know that I’m married. It would have been awkward and stupid. Not worth it. It occurred to me, though, that your taste in anything says a lot about you, your depth of character and your sense of identity. Food, music, women, cars, etc. All things in life are subjective, and thus there are no “right” choices. It’s easy to see, that most people don’t spend a great deal of time looking, thinking, or evaluating on their own, however. Most peoples’ values come out of a can, and it’s not even a very good can. It’s a B.O.G.O. at Wal-Mart kind of can. Whatever’s on sale and whatever everybody else is getting. It seems like most people don’t even really know what they like.

Mechanical Failure

I admire things that imply the failure of other things simply by their naked existence. A spare tire implies not only the failure of the tire that it’s replacing, but it also points to the limitations of tires in general. Divorce attorneys highlight the finitude of love and the volatile and temperamental nature of human sentiments. Police allude to our inability to behave. Churches illuminate our failure to grapple with the fact that we’re all alone in the universe. Shoe polish indicates leather’s lack of natural shine and resilience. Wars imply the failure of diplomacy and cooler heads. My garage full of art proves my failure to ever sell any of my work. My daily one-hour commute to my miserable job implies my stupidity and complacency.

Flat Tire

On my way home from work today I got a flat tire, in four lanes of gridlocked rush hour traffic. It happened on 5th avenue, which runs through the heart of the University of Pittsburgh’s campus. I made it from the 2nd lane over to the right side of the road. I pulled over by the sidewalk into a metered space. I put a quarter in it, because it was before 6pm, and a parking ticket would just add insult to injury. I got out the spare, the tire iron and the scissor jack. It took a bit of struggle to get the jack in a stable spot underneath the car. It went up, though. The hubcap came off pretty easily, and all the nuts did likewise. All of them except one, which was a little reluctant to come loose. I managed to slip and pinch my hand between the tire iron and the curb in the process of its forceful removal, opening a decent little hole in the meat of my right hand. It bled quickly, and the blood mixed with the dirt already accumulated. The wheel itself, however, was rusted firmly into place. I couldn’t pull it off. I couldn’t even get it to wiggle. College kids streamed past, beautiful girls in short skirts and boys without convictions. They were all young and clean. I am not a proud man, and I would have happily asked one for help, but I just didn’t see any of these guys with more upper body than me. They all looked thin and soft. Filthy, and sweating completely through my clothes, I knelt in the gutter with my blackened hands, one also bloodied now. A woman walking down the sidewalk handing out religious pamphlets approached me, asked if I knew about the lord Jesus Christ, and waved a pamphlet in my face. I wondered if I took the fucking thing, would the lord Jesus Christ come down from his ivory fucking tower and change this goddamned tire? I wondered if I looked like I needed something to read while I tried to pull this rusted fucking wheel off, and I also thought about ending her miserable fucking life with the tire iron still sitting easily within reach of my bleeding right hand. I wanted to cave in her face, take pictures of it, and send them to the lord Jesus Christ as a warning. Instead, I politely said, “No, thank you.” It was the most restraint I’ve ever exercised in my life. After about 15 minutes, a cop showed up and demonstrated how to kick off a tire that’s rusted stuck. Apparently, he worked two jobs. His second job was as a mechanic. He was very friendly and helpful, and looked Hispanic. Nicest cop I’ve ever met. His trick worked pretty quickly. After thanking him profusely, I put on the spare and threw everything else into the trunk. My 45 minute drive home resumed.