Is life ever a short story? |
It hadn’t been raining that long, but she felt as if she’d been sunk for all her years. Life seemed to have gained a pull in the obsolete game of tug-a-war. The window was covered in fog, creating a hardly visible view, even from an optimists view. Her, be an optimist? Oh she tried certainly, she did try. It was the only way she could ever fit in-be an optimist! Stop being so typical, step of your box and take the paper bag off your head. Be yourself,but make sure you fit in. How did that work out? Can any mathematical genius solve that equation? The papers went scrambling to the floor as she reached to pick them up before wandering eyes could read them. Her writing was not for others or for anyone in that matter. It was just something she did. With a small push her headphones were securely in place. Not a single person noticed or cared to pay attention, she just chuckled quietly to herself. The family a few rows behind with the snot-nosed kids would notice her soon enough.It was no question where they were headed. The brakes screamed to a halt as they picked up more passengers, more superficiality, and more polite chatter. A few stares, maybe, but generally not a look passed her way, and that was fine. It was always a wonder what attention meant to her. Her right of passage had already occurred, she’d made her great escape, narrowly missing flying pottery thrown by some relative or another, as she left, left the dingy town and its dingy people. People, who were always moping around the street; again and again,lollygagging and not doing a damned thing to change it. The immobile, she always liked to call them. It was stepped across her mind- what was she looking for exactly? Was it an actual object or just some kind of personal accolade? Personal accolades always made you pay a price, such a costly, costly, price. She’d done plenty of paying, to others, for those unspoken credentials. Maybe people speculated about her going, going on and on from town to town, just participating in her costly accolades. But maybe it wasn’t that. Perhaps she was just slow, slow with the times, slow with life. But being slow, was it such a bad thing? Oh, they’d said, it was out of society’s standards, out of the times. A big no-no. Stare, stare, and stare. For whatever reason, it was her magnetism. Forget a dashing Splenda sweetened personality- her forte was being stared at. Anyone, everyone, seemed to do it. See her there, don’t yourself fall that far, that’s just a let down. So many business people and cheap leather suitcases, trench coats and cancer blocks. Her occupation held her solely to one age, but it was an age of happiness and smiles. Throw this, catch that,smile, grin, don’t forget to please the kiddies, ignore the unenthused parents, you’re all for the youth! Youth, it’s the time of indecision, stupidity with hormones, and sheer vanity. Right here, right now, that was her motto. Paint your face, hide your feeling’s,fold and bend things with a obnoxious laugh and lacquer face. Don’t argue just do. It was a commonality she was always preached, every day, winding in, out and around. Obey and get paid. Staring got her where she is, got her a job, a blank white purpose, small and duly noted by government officials. The streets vanished by so quickly, blurred together like crème in a cup, a cup of whatever your joe is. She always found herself being so cynical but it made for the best amusement, and that’s all she was ever good for. Get your thousands but you’ve got to entertain, entice and move forward, or you’re just a useless bint. A bint in the scheme. Sometimes she wanted them closer, someone to leech onto, someone to ease her typical societal fears, but they were furthermore the worst possible answer. They wouldn’t denounce a thing, the just laughed, mockingly, horribly. Laughed and pointed, pointed like a thorn, a thorn stuck in the scheme. Her Dad’s motto was innocence equaled arrogance, something she’d never grasped, and something just far too politically correct. But her Dad, her dear Pops. What a useless blob he’d been at times. You could reach to the depths of earth for him and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing, not in the slightest possible way. How could she forget the maroon carpet, seeping with memories? So maroon, dark, so smooth. That’s when she knew she was done for, maroon hadn’t ever been her favorite color. Bitter, bitter, she knew it consumed her veins, her bitterness hiccupped from time to time, and hen she was normal, but only in jest. Always so funny, those maroon splotches. Jesting was her best bet. You couldn’t say she’d ever been one for humor, no, no really. Nothing was ever really funny for her. Bright faces with reds and yellows, mashing together, like a round red ball, bouncing, bouncing, and laughter and crack happy music. Not really her scene, but now her job. It’s where all her professionalism laid, being crack addict happy. No one gave a lab-rat’s behind if you had a bad day, her job demanded empathy, darn it! Be empathetic, don’t entertain apathy. You aren’t making money to be a blubbering mess of rainbows. Her thoughts were dampened as man sat next to her, similar in face, personality, an equal. He smiled, but didn’t dare utter a word. Minutes clicked and clacked on by, the music dulling her thoughts. It was essence to make sure she had everything with her, ever last scratch and attention to detail, her being. The bus screamed to a halt, yet again, letting her go, letting her weed her way to her optimistic standard. Pushing her way through the unsure unfamiliarity, she felt a bump, a jolt, maybe a few snickers, but that was a delicious candy for the afterlife. The man was closely behind, huffing and puffing, as if it was some kind of desperate race, get yourself to the front, women and children first! But it wasn’t, not in any respect. He ideals were all wrong. The bus driver rolled his eyes, such a negative Nancy that one. She smiled politely, leaving a few spare coins on the dash, He’d find some kind of gift for the wife, mooch her up a little, and win himself a little something. It was her good deed for the day, an ever undoubting task. The man grabbed her, spinning her around, almost like a lovesick movie scene. “Um, ma’m. You forgot your clown shoes.” He said quietly, holding out the brightly colored mechanics. Such was her day, forgetting right off the bat. Oh, but she would stand, unaffected. The true jokester. |