For years I've managed to get by on a lone bookshelf, one of those single-wide Ikea jobs everyone somehow seems to acquire six months on either side of college graduation. It has proven more durable than much of my other furniture from that Big Blue Box - the key, I've discovered, is to never take anything apart - and has been tall enough to absorb the trickle of new material I occasionally toss up on its shelves.
It's only been in the past couple of years, really, that the shelf has begun to fail me. Its inadequacy emerged innocently enough, when in a rush I placed a couple of volumes horizontally across an upright row of like-sized books. I suppose I could have rearranged a few titles and found some unforeseen space, but I viewed this solution as simultaneously expedient and ingenious; not only had it made use of available real estate, but did so without obscuring the names of nearby books, most of which, honestly, I had never read, nor really planned to read. Like Johnny Carson for all those years on the Tonight Show, it was more important for me to know they were there than to actually flip through their pages. For me they were decorations, symbolic of my interests, but little else.
My disinterest in reading, however, hardly prevented me from acquiring new books. I just knew there'd be some speed-reading frenzy on the horizon and I was desperate to be ready. Before long I ran out of horizontal storage on top of the existing rows of upright tomes, forcing me to apply the technique in front of those rows, starting from the surface of each shelf. At this point the strategy became a victim of its own success, with books jutting outward from the shelf face and scaling upward over the spines of everything else. If a visitor had seen this sight in a vacuum, they would think I was quite prolific reader indeed.
Alas, that same visitor, if he bothered to look around, wouldn't find another book in my entire apartment. I'm into periodicals...
Monday, December 18, 2006
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Naughty or Nice?
I started Tuesday, quite willfully, with a simple act of courtesy, holding open a door for an attractive woman passing the threshold behind me. I resisted the urge to exaggerate the gesture, careful not to look too closely at her or break my stride to the coffee counter. This was about kindness for kindness’s sake, not some calculated pickup attempt, and I, extrapolating from that moment, wondered how many karma credits I’d end up earning that day. I repeated the gesture on the way out, and watched as, in my mind, the value of my cosmic assets surged upward.
Every ledger, though, has its liabilities, and before long mine were piling up. The problems began en route to work, at a bus stop in a crumbling part of town, where a white haired man pulled himself past the driver and into the aisle, stopping in front of my seat. Normally, the crossword distracts me from these developments, but my failure to conjure the word for “seed coat” led me to his gaze.
He nodded in an inquiring way, and I looked him up and down for signs of ill health, noting his remarkably erect posture and firm grip on the overhead rail. He was nearly smiling, a picture of geriatric fitness! I quickly made my judgment, deciding the time standing would bolster his youthful vigor, or what was left of it, and I returned to the four-letter crisis taunting me from the grid. Was it “rind?”
Later, long after the soccer game, a homeless-looking man approached me as I entered the corner market. The soles of his shoes had pulled away from their upper halves and at least one or two gnarled and darkened toes peeked out from the openings. He used a rope to tighten his pants and wore a t-shirt decrying unprotected sex. I could tell from his glossy glare that he was very eager to speak with me.
“Got any change?” he said, extending a heavily callused hand. I considered his request and thought of the crisp dollar in the depths of my pants pocket, and how quickly I could pass it from that pocket to his hand. But instead I squeezed my fist around the bill and crinkled it, declaring it unfit for further transfer – if one can assume such things – at the local liquor store.
Now I’d learned from experience that the polite use of “no, thank you” and “sorry, not today” often invited unpleasant retorts from pan-handlers, so I uttered my refusal in the most unambiguous and resolute way possible. I glanced in his direction, but not directly at him, and firmly said “no.”
“Fuck you,” he said, rejecting my reply. I walked into the store and used the crumpled dollar to grab a six-pack, then returned outside. More insight was on its way: “You’re an asshole!” he shouted, and then hurled insults as I plodded towards home. With this I re-assessed my cosmic assets and liabilities; turns out that morning’s surplus had transformed into a staggering deficit. But I was still optimistic – despite all the evidence screaming otherwise, I strongly believed, and to this day am certain, that I’m a good person, maybe even a really good person.
Just don’t ask the old guys on the bus.
Every ledger, though, has its liabilities, and before long mine were piling up. The problems began en route to work, at a bus stop in a crumbling part of town, where a white haired man pulled himself past the driver and into the aisle, stopping in front of my seat. Normally, the crossword distracts me from these developments, but my failure to conjure the word for “seed coat” led me to his gaze.
He nodded in an inquiring way, and I looked him up and down for signs of ill health, noting his remarkably erect posture and firm grip on the overhead rail. He was nearly smiling, a picture of geriatric fitness! I quickly made my judgment, deciding the time standing would bolster his youthful vigor, or what was left of it, and I returned to the four-letter crisis taunting me from the grid. Was it “rind?”
Later, long after the soccer game, a homeless-looking man approached me as I entered the corner market. The soles of his shoes had pulled away from their upper halves and at least one or two gnarled and darkened toes peeked out from the openings. He used a rope to tighten his pants and wore a t-shirt decrying unprotected sex. I could tell from his glossy glare that he was very eager to speak with me.
“Got any change?” he said, extending a heavily callused hand. I considered his request and thought of the crisp dollar in the depths of my pants pocket, and how quickly I could pass it from that pocket to his hand. But instead I squeezed my fist around the bill and crinkled it, declaring it unfit for further transfer – if one can assume such things – at the local liquor store.
Now I’d learned from experience that the polite use of “no, thank you” and “sorry, not today” often invited unpleasant retorts from pan-handlers, so I uttered my refusal in the most unambiguous and resolute way possible. I glanced in his direction, but not directly at him, and firmly said “no.”
“Fuck you,” he said, rejecting my reply. I walked into the store and used the crumpled dollar to grab a six-pack, then returned outside. More insight was on its way: “You’re an asshole!” he shouted, and then hurled insults as I plodded towards home. With this I re-assessed my cosmic assets and liabilities; turns out that morning’s surplus had transformed into a staggering deficit. But I was still optimistic – despite all the evidence screaming otherwise, I strongly believed, and to this day am certain, that I’m a good person, maybe even a really good person.
Just don’t ask the old guys on the bus.
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