(no subject)
TED, the check-out guy at the grocery store, was bagging up my items while I drummed an approximation of "Wipe-Out" on the counter with my hands.
“Hey,” he said, “You like birds?”
We had never spoken before.
“Uh, yeah. They’re good, I guess.”
“I like ‘em, too. My favorite is the Peregrine. You know that one? It’s this badass falcon. A whole lot of ‘em died in the fifties or something. Now they’re coming back.”
“I know them. A pair used to live on my building. One of them died and the other flew off. They’re fast flyers--”
He stopped me right there-- “They’re the fastest fucking bird there is.”
“Oh.”
The overhead PA garbled something unintelligible.
“Yeah. Check this out,” he said.
TED yanked his shirtfront from his jeans and raised it to his chin. Tattooed there in bold across his chest and stomach flew a majestic avian-- clutching, of all things, a flaming 8-ball- a definitive Peregrine Falcon ink.
“Wow,” I managed to say. Not bad.
The clerk nodded eagerly.
Suddenly, a small and brooding man appeared behind the register. His name-tag read TOM in large, plain letters. Must have been TED'S manager. He leaned over and whispered something to TED which I couldn’t hear.
“The Peregrine?" TED replied.
“You’re absolutely right,” TOM agreed.
TED'S face became perplexed. He stared at me for a long moment before removing his shirt and exiting the store.
“Uh, okay, where’s he going? You didn’t just you fire him, did you?” I asked TOM.
The manager, whoever he was, did not answer me. His eyes were dry and unblinking.
“Hey, snap out of it! What just happened?”
“It is our time. It is not their time,” TOM murmured.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sir, what do you stand for?”
“Excuse me?” I was shocked.
“I said, what do you stand for?”
I couldn't answer his question. Not because I was speechless or caught of guard. Not because "cat got my tongue." I simply did not have any concievable remark. Once, I thought to myself, I stood for high art and literature. Now mostly I just stand there. No girlfriend. Career's not taking off. This town sucks. Self awareness and 90's indie rock bands are my friends. We eat dinner every night, together. Which is why I am here at the goddamn store! Because I was going to make broccoli and steak. What the fuck.
I rounded up my groceries and left. I got the fuck away from TOM.
"You need to pay for those!"
Fuck you, TOM.
Out in the parking lot I got tackled by TIM and he put gravel in my mouth.