It's a Saturday. The credit union clock said it's +91º. I went to the drug store and bought dutch chocolate ice cream, cokes, cough drops and contact solution. Before that I was at the grocery store, the big one with all the stuff from Mexico. I bought bright colorful clothespins, plastic, made in Mexico. Better than made in China, I guess. I contemplated the ice cream there, an open deep freezer with a hundred choices. Then I went over to the Mexican pastries and contemplated those for a while, dozens of styles, three-for-a-dollar. I picked up a loaf of fresh baked bread and went back to the deep freezer. I considered light ice cream, no-sugar-added ice cream, sherbet and ice cream sandwiches, then I picked up a six pack of beer and got in line at the ten-items-or-less aisle. The man in front of me had fourteen items. He sheepishly told the cashier he had eleven items. She didn't care. His credit card wouldn't work in the machine until the manager came over and swiped it. The cashier at the next register said, "Rhonda has the magic touch!" Rhonda laughed and repeated that like it was a ridiculous statement. Rhonda had blond helmet hair. The cashier had red and black water fountain hair. The place was a madhouse. Outside, kids were running from ride to ride, putting fifty cents in and wiggling around on carousel horses, dolphins, and a colorful fire engine with Sesame Street characters in the back seat. There was a long line at the snow cone stand. Older kids were shoveling bright blue snow into their blue smeared mouths. There were booths along the front of the store selling everything from cowboy boots to oriental rugs to framed posters of hip-hop stars (Tupac Shakur 1971-1996) and gangster movie stars (Al Pacino with splattered letters: How'd Jou Like Dat?). A homeless man pushing a cart from the far corner of the back parking lot approached me saying something in Spanglish. I smiled and kept walking. I came home, rolled a cigarette, put the last load of laundry in the washing machine, took a dump, put a cough drop in my mouth and smoked on the front porch. I have lots of work to do, but I feel exhausted. My good friend Cindy left yesterday after a ten-day visit. I got Steven to take my "shift" organizing meds for John at his house and I'm enjoying a little time alone. But it's hot and humid and a shower will feel good. Cold water. And then I guess I'll get back to work.June 16: Saturday (15 minutes)
It's a Saturday. The credit union clock said it's +91º. I went to the drug store and bought dutch chocolate ice cream, cokes, cough drops and contact solution. Before that I was at the grocery store, the big one with all the stuff from Mexico. I bought bright colorful clothespins, plastic, made in Mexico. Better than made in China, I guess. I contemplated the ice cream there, an open deep freezer with a hundred choices. Then I went over to the Mexican pastries and contemplated those for a while, dozens of styles, three-for-a-dollar. I picked up a loaf of fresh baked bread and went back to the deep freezer. I considered light ice cream, no-sugar-added ice cream, sherbet and ice cream sandwiches, then I picked up a six pack of beer and got in line at the ten-items-or-less aisle. The man in front of me had fourteen items. He sheepishly told the cashier he had eleven items. She didn't care. His credit card wouldn't work in the machine until the manager came over and swiped it. The cashier at the next register said, "Rhonda has the magic touch!" Rhonda laughed and repeated that like it was a ridiculous statement. Rhonda had blond helmet hair. The cashier had red and black water fountain hair. The place was a madhouse. Outside, kids were running from ride to ride, putting fifty cents in and wiggling around on carousel horses, dolphins, and a colorful fire engine with Sesame Street characters in the back seat. There was a long line at the snow cone stand. Older kids were shoveling bright blue snow into their blue smeared mouths. There were booths along the front of the store selling everything from cowboy boots to oriental rugs to framed posters of hip-hop stars (Tupac Shakur 1971-1996) and gangster movie stars (Al Pacino with splattered letters: How'd Jou Like Dat?). A homeless man pushing a cart from the far corner of the back parking lot approached me saying something in Spanglish. I smiled and kept walking. I came home, rolled a cigarette, put the last load of laundry in the washing machine, took a dump, put a cough drop in my mouth and smoked on the front porch. I have lots of work to do, but I feel exhausted. My good friend Cindy left yesterday after a ten-day visit. I got Steven to take my "shift" organizing meds for John at his house and I'm enjoying a little time alone. But it's hot and humid and a shower will feel good. Cold water. And then I guess I'll get back to work.
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