king, or queen, of the road

As I idled at the stoplight, I watched it balletically maneuver in and around vehicles making a left turn, essentially a U-turn to head back from whence they came. The performance lasted less than a minute. I say "it" because at my distance I couldn't discern whether the performer was male or female, and since there was only one of "it" I am choosing a singular, indeterminate pronoun.

Danger filled the air.

It could have been hit by one of the turning vehicles. I suspect such a collision would not have been fatal to it, but who can say? A collision certainly would not harm any of the drivers or their vehicles.  

It danced and swirled and weaved artfully and gracefully, avoiding any contact with windshields or metal. Its sense of smell and vision were life-savers. 

Was it aware of the risks, the potential dangers and threats, as I was? It had no time to think, just react. 

I winced a few times, as if to say to myself, "Uh-oh, careful, watch out, ouch, no, yikes."

It performed proudly and regally, I dare say majestically.

And with impunity.

Harmlessly.

Before I knew it, it was time for me to turn. I lost track of it. It was gone. Or I was gone from it.

I saw no milkweed nearby, but it could have been growing in the median or on the side of the road.

Was it tired from its flight from Mexico?

This solitary Monarch butterfly splendidly survived, for that moment, that day.

No regal decrees were issued.

It fared better than five of the six wives of Henry VIII. (The last one survived him.)

"My" Monarch had nothing to prove, no obsession with heirs or riches or lineage or royal puissance.

Just flight.

Just Monarch-ness.

I, your loyal and humble servant, bow before you.

baby, love

She crossed South Salina Street, against  traffic, looking over her shoulder, walking fast. Slung on her hip a curly-haired boy, maybe three years old, mixed race. He'd look beautiful in a cereal commercial, or on a box of Wheaties. She was young, white, skinny, harried, nervous. She darted diagonally, pausing for traffic on the double yellow line in the center only because she had to. She kept looking back. Reaching the bus kiosk on the other side, she averted dashing the kid's head into a metal column of the bus-passenger waiting area. If she did, you imagined, she'd just keep going. You silently compared her handling of the boy to lugging a sack of potatoes, carrying a package, a handbag. The child seemed an after-thought in every respect. A physical burden, for starters, but she was not about to let him slow her down. He did not complain, though he was awake. Her reckless rush began to irk you. This boy is going to get hurt. And this is just what the public sees. What are his chances? You began to generalize and fantasize in the extreme: what is it with everyone, nobody works, she's running to find cocaine, what a shithole. What a dampening of a sunny day in Syracuse, though too hot for your comfort. But something slowed you down. Grace or whatever you care to name it (or not name it) freeze-framed your observation as she moved out of sight. The conversation in your head shifted. Christ, she's scared. It's fear. Don't be mad at her. Maybe she's running for her life, both figuratively and literally. What would anger at her accomplish, anyway? Is someone chasing her? She's panicked. Off to your right and in her urban wake, maybe someone is flashing a gun or yelling threats at her on the other side of the window in front of where you safely and coolly sit, sipping iced black tea with wild berry. Refugees in America.

life, affirmed

A sentence (a life sentence, at that):

Fresh from a stay at the Williams Club, walking down West 31st Street, on the shaded side, they saw a hotel, the Herald Square Hotel, with the word "LIFE" not interrupted but decoratively carved into the concrete face of the building in three different places, as if warding off suicides or affirming an existential state or simply dancing the good ol' joie-de-vivre, and then, several floors higher than those facades of LIFE (and we know how much life can be a facade sometimes), surprise! look! the word LIFE spelled out again in sure declaration, triumph, or inspiration, take your pick.

Anatomy of an Hour

8:17 a.m. -- Walk into building. Hang coat up. Walk upstairs to cubicle. Turn on computer. Unsuccessful. Change password. Successful reboot. Decide against clicking on Outlook to check mail, fearing an avalanche of tasks will descend before taking seat at desk. Blinking light on phone indicates the presence of stored voicemail message(s).

8:23 a.m. -- Grab coffee mug, find tea bag, get tiny creamer from refrigerator. After inspecting level of sediment in mug, wash vigorously with detergent, rinse, wipe dry. Exchange brief pleasantries with colleague at sink.

8:27 a.m. -- Upon walking to hot-water dispenser, thinking about urinating but postponing the action, get paged to answer phone call from client on line 31. Put mug down, near tea bag and creamer on colleague's unoccupied desk to take call.

8:28 a.m. -- Pick up line 31. Empty. Client has hung up.

8:29 a.m. -- Go to bathroom. Urinate. Wash hands. Attempt to dry with paper towel. No paper towels. Wipe hands on underarms.

8:34 a.m. -- Search unsuccessfully for mug, tea bag, and creamer. Get paged. Call on line 32. From wife. Go to receptionist's desk, pick up line 32. Learn that the lunch self-prepared earlier this morning is still sitting on the kitchen table. Instruct that it be placed in the refrigerator at home. Call on line 31. From client. Pick up line 31 at front desk. Client scolds for not taking earlier call. Ask receptionist for Post-it or scrap paper by waving hands, lifting eyebrows, and making spastic motions. Other calls coming in. Receptionist demands that call on line 31 be put on hold and responded to away from receptionist's desk, to free up incoming calls.

8:37 a.m. -- Take client's call on line 31, at own desk. Client asks if email has been received. Lie by saying, "Yes" but bluff through the rest of the client's monologue as client lists edits to five bulleted items, including reordering and adding new bullets and deleting others. Take notes on last week's pay stub found in pocket because Post-its left on desk last night have been used by others. While client is talking, cradle phone in curve of shoulder and attempt to retrieve email client is referring to. Email is down. Interrupt client and cheerily ask for edits in a fax, claiming email never came through, totally contradicting earlier lie. Client turns frosty. Reach for mug. It's not there. Feebly attempt humor with client. Starchy reply, emphasizing deadline. While client is making key critical comment, call is lost from client's cellphone.

8:45 a.m. -- Rush downstairs, find mug, place tea bag in mug, fill with hot water. Walk upstairs to desk, letting tea steep. No creamer. Sip very hot tea despite wanting creamer. Try email. Still down. Click on Internet Explorer. Home page headline reads: "5 Tips for a More Productive Day." Click on link; glance at five bulleted items; resist reading complete article; send printer-friendly version of article to printer. Take one quick look at NCAA brackets. Resist urge to read further. Send NCAA bracket results to printer. Walk three yards to printer. Only NCAA results print out.

8:52 a.m. -- Ask receptionist to check on UPS package sent last night to another client. Not there yet. No record of it in the system. Ask receptionist to follow up.

8:53 a.m. -- Supervisor enters office and asks for draft of proposal promised by noon. In response to protests it is not yet noon, says, "Well, it's noon somewhere." Receptionist phones, informing of nine-page fax to be picked up downstairs.

8:56 a.m. -- Run downstairs, retrieve fax, run to refrigerator, pick up creamer. Run upstairs back to office.

8:57 a.m. -- Take gulp of tea, now cold, but with creamer. Email is up: 36 messages, three with symbols indicating high urgency.

9:01 a.m. -- Scroll to message of client who called earlier on line 31. Faxed version of edits is completely different. Begin to call client. Get paged. Doctor's office. Line 33. Get paged again. Client from earlier line 31 now on line 32. Client berates for not calling back on cellphone sooner. Client walks through a now-third version of edits significatly different from emailed version or faxed version. Client then interrupts self. Can't finish revisions, must board plane. Doctor's office not on line 33 anymore.

9:11 a.m. -- Call doctor's office. Receptionist puts call on hold. Background music is "A Day in the Life" by The Beatles. Click on one of two urgent emails. Email message inquires as to reason for missing yesterday's regulatory deadline. Delete message.

9:13 a.m. -- Doctor's office answers; asks name again. Hang up.

9:14 a.m. -- Client calls with edit from plane; flight delayed. Hang up.

9:15 a.m. -- Take sip of cold tea. Grab coat and keys. Walk downstairs.

9:16 a.m. -- Sign out, writing: "Appointment in Samarra." Exit building.

9:17 a.m. -- Outside, on bottom step in front of stairs to office, call doctor's office on cellphone. Busy. Call X, in another time zone. X answers call, says: "Surrender to win," laughs, hangs up. A jet flies into a bank of clouds.



© copyright 2007 by The Laughorist. Any resemblance to reality or real persons, places, events, workplaces, things, or thoughts is merely coincidental. All rights reserved. Just for today, the day you are reading this fiction nonfiction.

A CAPital OFFense

So I get this prescription, a steroid ointment. It comes in a tube. My toes were itching and burning like they were ablaze. Eczema. Fine. I open the box for the ointment and throw the directions out. I go to apply the cream and find that a metallic seal first has to be broken. (Warning to Freudian psychoanalysts: please refrain from the obvious. Much obliged.) I use a Q-tip to break the seal, apply the cream. Great.

Then I find that the cap does not stay on. It slides off. It is too loose. I consider going back to the pharmacist. (This was last Friday, a very cold but otherwise warm-hearted, pleasant afternoon, later followed by my Saint Nicholas gig.)

"Phil, I can't seem to get this cap to stay on," I would've said.

Or, "Karen, can you help me to screw [on this cap]?" I imagined flirting with his assistant.

But, no, I don't go back to the pharmacy. I figure I'll live with it. So the cap is loose. Let the feckin thing stay loose.

But I am too anal-retentive to let this go entirely. Or at all.

I bring this issue up casually with my housemate, my partner (OK! my spouse, if you prefer).

I tell her about it.

Before I even finish a sentence, she experiences gales of laughter, paroxysms of pleasure (humorous pleasure; you all have dirty minds).

To be fair to her -- and to me -- not malicious laughter. The kind that it is easy to go along with and perhaps even laugh along with.

She informs me. No. Wait. She doesn't inform me; she silently takes the fecking cap and takes it off and puts it on via the other end.

I was wondering what the pointy cone was for. Oh! To puncture the seal! And then to reverse the cap and place it on the screw portion, the threads. O Freudimus maximus!

I told her this was easy for her because she works in a hospital. She does this sort of thing every day.

Does anyone out there know what I am talking about? Am I a retro-pre-Luddite in a modern age? Am I alone in having the universe pass me by?

If you are all laughing at me, I hate you all.

I admit to being an intellectual snob.

I may have to drop the penultimate word from that previous sentence.

Screw it. Screw you all.

Laugh. Or....

Else.