Monday did not go as planned. I passed a bladder stone though, and that was quite the relief. The day started in a hazy dream, literally. I was in a big lumber/hardware store, and it was dimly lit, dusty, and almost empty, not of goods, but of customers. At first, I was looking for some batteries. I'm not sure why. I think I'd found them and headed to the cashier. The checkout stands were empty; a ghost-like light poured down through a high window, specks of dust floating aimlessly down towards them. I must have found someone to help, because over the loud speaker, someone called "Customer Service wanted in Lane 4".
A ghostly girl, with long, dark hair and a pale face, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, emerged out of the darkness. Just as she approached the check-out stand, I remembered I needed a radio, and I asked where they were, got my answer, and took off. I'd taken oh about 10 steps when another girl, about the same age, said, "Well, that was rude."
I stopped. "What?"
"She walked all that way to help you, and you just leave."
"I forgot something. Besides it's her job. Her job."
I then headed for the back corner where I had been told the radios were. It seemed forever far, and it was so dark in there, I wasn't sure I'd make it. I kept telling myself. It's only a hardware store, you can do this. Only I realize now, that it wasn't really a hardware store. Or if it was, it was the type of hardware store you would find in a small town, except it was giant. Stores in small towns always contain more than what they promise, and also less of what the they promise. For instance, when I was a kid growing up here in Sandstone, Pioneer Market, a grocery store, sold shot guns not 10 feet from the children's toys. Right above the toys were art supplies, such as acrylic paint, oil paint and chalk pastels. In the back corner, down a slanted wooden floor, the frozen pizzas were right next to the women scarfs. It was hard to get a whole meal of food there, but you could supply yourself for an enjoyable evening of landscape painting or a rollicking good time bunny blasting in the process.
Anyway, I did make my way through the giant building of dry fog and eventually found the clock radio that I was seeking, a small pill-shaped gray plastic battery operated one on a giant, orange metal and wood plank shelving system--the type you would pull a fork lift up to and unload a pallet of bags of concrete. There, on a shelving system that ran the length of a football field, was the alarm clock I wanted. It was the only thing. I was creeped-out about it for a second or two, but then grabbed it and headed back across the enormous gray void to the register under the shaft of dusty light.
When I arrived, the girl with long, black hair and ghostly white skin was waiting. She was terribly thin and small framed. She wore a pale pink sweater. Her head was a bit long, but she had enormous dark, brown eyes. They might have been inviting, but they were sunk in, circled by shadow, and when she opened her mouth to ask if I had everything I needed, I noticed she had little tiny pointed teeth like on a small puppy. I realized they were all but rotted away. She noticed I noticed and seemed embarrassed. I noticed she noticed, and I was embarrassed that I noticed. Teens are so overly self-aware as it is. I tried to ease the tension by making small talk, but I've never known how to do that.
It was long, awkward minute.
I woke up and I realized my life was rich with such awkward moments, and I hated them. If I had had an ice cream cart in a situation like that, I could have just said, "What's your flavor?"
She would have told me, I would have gotten it and handed it to her. Tasting that cool sweetness--I'm thinking she would like strawberry--she would have forgotten I had noticed her very unattractive teeth, and I would have forgotten she noticed me noticing. I could have gotten a scoop for myself too. I prefer clean, pure vanilla. We could have enjoyed a silent moment of eating ice cream and then I could be on my way. And it could be like that anywhere. You know how you never know whether or not to give money to drunken panhandlers? Well, what harm could ice cream possibly do? See what I mean: small moments of caring without all the ugly awkwardness surrounding human emotions.
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