book store breakdown
The man beside me with blonde sideburns can't stop picking at the elastic band at the top of his socks. His leg crossed over his knee, he haphazardly tabs through a magazine, only pretending to read. He glances down at his selection every so often, in between looking at the people milling around the book store, bobbing his head to the imaginary music reverberating in his ears. A woman walks by, he eyes her slyly, clears his throat, and turns a page in the magazine. Across from me, another man, novel in hand, pulls out a phone from his pocket. "Hello? Yes, uh huh...yes, I understand. Yes, not a problem...I understand. Of course..." He drones on in a sedate voice, always repeating the same, "Yes, I understand." His legs, too, are crossed, and his foot shakes wildly, never pausing for a break, never tiring from the persistent motion. I can't take the bobbing, the shaking, the snapping of the elastic socks. I pick a new book up from my lap, overflowing with a diverse assortment, and place it in front of me. But all I can see is the bobbing foot. I pull it up higher, trying to block it from my vision, but next to me the head bobber is going at it more fiercely than ever. "He better have Tourette's", I think to myself: there better be some reasoning behind the constant fidgeting. I dart my eyes back and forth between the two men, then down at the small print on the pages in front of me. Occassionaly, the guy on the phone and I make eye contact. Occassionally, I can feel head bopper peering at me. Long after the man hangs up the phone, his business-like "yes, I understand" echos in my head, set to the rhythmn of the snapping elastic percussion coming from the other man who picks at his socks. It makes me crazy. THEY make me crazy. I twirl a piece of hair around my fingers. The doctors are saying that's a sign of insecurity.