Conspirators
In the weeks when I feel like there are too many enemies to fight, too many bear traps to dismantle, and one too many mouths to feed at the shelter, I look straight at ahead, at the end of my street and see a blurry someone laughing.
It's the conspirator. I cannot tell if it is a him or a her. If the hair is long and flowing or short and sharp and full of product. All I know is s/he is laughing.
And not the jolly kind of laugh either. It's a chain smoking tracheal train wreck kind of laugh. A scraping of iron tracks and broken Bic lighters. It makes my face scrunch. It makes me look like one of those wrinkly purse dogs who is not allowed to walk on her own.
But, I've figured out that my conspirator is working alone. I saw him/her the other day eating a large fry all. Taking notes on a carbon paper receipt about what his next move would be. His next diabolical solo move. I thought s/he was laughing as he scribbled. But when he looked up and saw me peering through the tinted dining room windows, I saw the tears. In that instant s/he disappeared into the bathroom. To hide/ and to read the sharpie words of wisdom written on the vinyl tall wall: "GINA + JACK = LUV 4EVR."
A good conspirator does not work a lone. A good conspirator has a team. Henchmen. Networks. Bevies of supporters who carry phones with her number on speed dial.
I didn't know before.
I wasn't sure.
But the conspirator is me.
I have the network and phone numbers and hands and feet and armies of men and women who think that I am capable. And the blurry someone at the end of the street is not watching and laughing, but is actually weeping and running away.
I wish they wouldn't.
It's the conspirator. I cannot tell if it is a him or a her. If the hair is long and flowing or short and sharp and full of product. All I know is s/he is laughing.
And not the jolly kind of laugh either. It's a chain smoking tracheal train wreck kind of laugh. A scraping of iron tracks and broken Bic lighters. It makes my face scrunch. It makes me look like one of those wrinkly purse dogs who is not allowed to walk on her own.
But, I've figured out that my conspirator is working alone. I saw him/her the other day eating a large fry all. Taking notes on a carbon paper receipt about what his next move would be. His next diabolical solo move. I thought s/he was laughing as he scribbled. But when he looked up and saw me peering through the tinted dining room windows, I saw the tears. In that instant s/he disappeared into the bathroom. To hide/ and to read the sharpie words of wisdom written on the vinyl tall wall: "GINA + JACK = LUV 4EVR."
A good conspirator does not work a lone. A good conspirator has a team. Henchmen. Networks. Bevies of supporters who carry phones with her number on speed dial.
I didn't know before.
I wasn't sure.
But the conspirator is me.
I have the network and phone numbers and hands and feet and armies of men and women who think that I am capable. And the blurry someone at the end of the street is not watching and laughing, but is actually weeping and running away.
I wish they wouldn't.