said the tortoise to the bagpipe.
a: i forgot how to draw.
b: i forgot how to write
ergo: i am good for absopositively nothing.
but: something happened to me & it hasnt left my head yet. so we're going to try this.
the place i work is well-lit to a fault [the fluroescent bulbs make everyone look two years deader.], usually fucking packed to the rafters [we probably have around three rafters, so i guess it isnt that many people, comparatively speaking.], & so loud i can never hear myself think, let alone here my teeth snap on one another when i squeeze them like the fist i cant make while i'm scanning groceries.
so it was busy, & i was angry, as the best thing to do to pass time is to bring up old scabs you'd forgotten about & pick at them. it leads to a few clerical errors, because i really should be concentrating on my job, but really, who cares.
you'd think you'd be able to pick me out of a lineup as the aggressive little teenager who grunts instead of greets. no, i'm downright motherfucking cheery. i play the same recording, same tone, same "hi there, how are you?" blahblahblah. "okie-dokie." & everybody loves me for it, & i only meant it the first few times. i have it down to a science people.
[there are cheeky little bastards who try & break the recording by talking to me, but if you can whittle them down to monosyllabic answers that are still in a bright tone, you're golden.]
but something threw me off my inner rants, & my preprogrammed settings, & my quick little fingers that worked like an involuntary organ so i didnt have to think much.
"hello, dear." she was old, her skin was made of flaking dogwood bark, her hair was white & her eyes were rimmed in rabbit pink. she had the voice you picture every little old lady with: whispy, kind, a little shaky. like an old rocking chair left to its own devices on the porch.
"hello, how are you." i looked her full in the face so she would acknowledge that i made eye-contact,then the head goes down.
"i'm wonderful. but could you put my groceries back in this blue bag for me?"
i paused.
"yes, of course. ahm. okie-dokie."
i paused.
why would she specify that the bag was blue. i can see that. she can see that. why would she. why...
i could feel my head racing. why specify blue. she's just like every grandmother in every storybook, like they specify green shoes & red cap, it's such a simple phrase. a storybook phrase.
suddenly my brain blurs & everyone is in peter rabbit watercolors, pastels, my hands are a peach & my nails are a pleasant grey that contrasts instead of the ugly chipping black they'd worn. i shake my head slightly, curls of pencil lines & color sloshing from me as i move as if i am made of water. colored water. watercolors.
i've paused for too long. the line is stacking up. i want to crouch in watercolors & climb into the rabbithole the alcove in my register has no doubt become. i dont want to be here. i want to be made out of water & pleasant & not here. this old woman has ruined me.
i pause.
scan.
bag.
blue ba-
no, just a bag.
hand it to her.
see her off.
ugh.
b: i forgot how to write
ergo: i am good for absopositively nothing.
but: something happened to me & it hasnt left my head yet. so we're going to try this.
the place i work is well-lit to a fault [the fluroescent bulbs make everyone look two years deader.], usually fucking packed to the rafters [we probably have around three rafters, so i guess it isnt that many people, comparatively speaking.], & so loud i can never hear myself think, let alone here my teeth snap on one another when i squeeze them like the fist i cant make while i'm scanning groceries.
so it was busy, & i was angry, as the best thing to do to pass time is to bring up old scabs you'd forgotten about & pick at them. it leads to a few clerical errors, because i really should be concentrating on my job, but really, who cares.
you'd think you'd be able to pick me out of a lineup as the aggressive little teenager who grunts instead of greets. no, i'm downright motherfucking cheery. i play the same recording, same tone, same "hi there, how are you?" blahblahblah. "okie-dokie." & everybody loves me for it, & i only meant it the first few times. i have it down to a science people.
[there are cheeky little bastards who try & break the recording by talking to me, but if you can whittle them down to monosyllabic answers that are still in a bright tone, you're golden.]
but something threw me off my inner rants, & my preprogrammed settings, & my quick little fingers that worked like an involuntary organ so i didnt have to think much.
"hello, dear." she was old, her skin was made of flaking dogwood bark, her hair was white & her eyes were rimmed in rabbit pink. she had the voice you picture every little old lady with: whispy, kind, a little shaky. like an old rocking chair left to its own devices on the porch.
"hello, how are you." i looked her full in the face so she would acknowledge that i made eye-contact,then the head goes down.
"i'm wonderful. but could you put my groceries back in this blue bag for me?"
i paused.
"yes, of course. ahm. okie-dokie."
i paused.
why would she specify that the bag was blue. i can see that. she can see that. why would she. why...
i could feel my head racing. why specify blue. she's just like every grandmother in every storybook, like they specify green shoes & red cap, it's such a simple phrase. a storybook phrase.
suddenly my brain blurs & everyone is in peter rabbit watercolors, pastels, my hands are a peach & my nails are a pleasant grey that contrasts instead of the ugly chipping black they'd worn. i shake my head slightly, curls of pencil lines & color sloshing from me as i move as if i am made of water. colored water. watercolors.
i've paused for too long. the line is stacking up. i want to crouch in watercolors & climb into the rabbithole the alcove in my register has no doubt become. i dont want to be here. i want to be made out of water & pleasant & not here. this old woman has ruined me.
i pause.
scan.
bag.
blue ba-
no, just a bag.
hand it to her.
see her off.
ugh.