License of the Elderly

There was a waiting line for the lady at the desk, but he didn't seem to notice. He was too busy chatting with her, making small talk while she tapped at the keyboard. He seemed to be worried that his insurance premiums, since he paid for those premiums, would soon go up due to all those who don't pay for insurance receiving care. "Well, hopefully that won't happen," was all the lady behind the computer could think to say. "Mr. X---, take a seat and give this to the nurse when you get called." She handed him a printout and gestured toward the seats behind him.

He hobbled over to the chairs, one foot shuffling in front of the other, his age showing in his knees and back and legs. Grasping both armrests firmly, he eased himself into the seat and began waiting, his paper-like creased fingers intertwined.

Almost immediately, the door to the back room was opened and a young lady in a white lab coat looked up from her clipboard and called his name. He had chosen the seat directly adjacent to the door. He handed her the white sheet he was holding and then began the process of standing up. "I've been waitin there for half an hour," he smiled at the nurse with the mischievous grin of the elderly.

"Well you know what I think?" She pronounced I as aigh. "I think you're full of it." She had the smile and look in her eye of a young woman used to the flirting banter of older gentlemen. "I saw you checkin in..." And that was all I could hear before the door closed and they walked away.

Not Like Last Time

"Tyler, you want to see something classy?" she asked me eagerly.
"You know I do!" I replied, genuine in my excitement. She plunked her purse down on the barstool beside me and tipsily fumbled with the zipper. As she dug into the bag she explained further.
"So, I'm out of toilet paper at home, and rather than go to the store?" She tilted to bag towards me to reveal a familiar looking cylinder wrapped in paper with green writing. I laughed.
"No, that's hilarious," I told her.
"The other day at school there someone in the bathroom complaining about it being under lock and key. They were like 'what the hell, why would anyone steal toilet paper?' I just kept my mouth shut."

As we headed to the door the she turned to me. "I better not read about this on the blog."
I had to chuckle. "Don't worry," I assured her. "I won't use your name."

The Trick Is

If we're going to maintain our level of drinking, we have to come back like, three, four times a week.

Are we really going to be able to do that, now that you have a girlfriend?

See, my girlfriend is an undergrad; she's busy all the time.

Heh, you're right. Your girlfriend is an undergrad. I need to make fun of you for that more often.

Grammar

I don't usually use this blog to do anything other than tell stories, but I really enjoyed this article.

If you ever wanted to dork out and read about prescriptivism vs descriptivism, well, now you can.

I tend to lean more towards the descriptive camp, mostly because I get annoyed by people who correct other's grammar, who say "ain't" and "irregardless" aren't words, and especially those who get pleasure out of "knowing how to speak properly" -- a guise for "better than the next guy."

English is a fluid concept, an amalgam of languages, and never was there an Académie française to govern how people use it.

My Fortune Cookie at Lunch Today

Good things are being, said about you.

Perceptions

We slumped into the first set of forward-facing seats as the train doors automatically closed. Slouching down, lauging about some inside joke, we threw our feet onto the seats ahead of us and relaxed, waiting for the end of the line. In the Washington, DC Metro cars, the seats next to the doors face in, perpendicular to travel, and are generally taken up by elderly people, single moms with their children, or weary eyed federal workers with reasonable, comfortable shoes.

As the doors opened at the next stop, four or five people shuffled in and a middle aged gentleman took the seat in front of ours. Both of us, in deference to his presence, took our feet off the seat and sat up slightly. He smiled and nodded slightly, and I returned the greeting. As the train started to move, he struggled internally for a second and then leaned over.

"Excuse me," he started and I perked my eyebrows in the way that shows someone you are listening. "I was wondering if you two moved your feet just now because I'm black."

I was surprised. "Oh... oh no, because I know some people would think it's rude having your feet up."

"I think y'all should make yourself comfortable, I don't mind at all."

"Well thank you." I think I put my feet back up, I can't say for sure. But I kept thinking about the exchange later. My actions, I thought, had been innocuous, polite even. But if it looked like that to him, how could they have been?

No, I hadn't fallen victim to the Fear Of The Black Man On The Street In America -- it was because countless times I had been chastized by teachers to put my feet down, because you have to respect other people's space in public, because he was older than me.

At least, I think?

The Dame

She slinked into the barstool next to mine and threw a smile at the barback washing glasses. It was a smile that men find themselves hard pressed to forget. She laid her clutch on the bar and rummaged through, taking out her phone and flipping it open to check the time or her messages. I ogled her out of the corner of my eye, with nothing better to do.

"What can I get you?" asked the bartender, wiping his hands on a towel. "Hmm... I'm feeling summery... How're your mojitos?" She didn't speak the words so much as purr them. "Best in town," the bartender replied, tucking the towel into his back pocket. She flashed her smile at him and nodded and he went about fixing the drink. I took a swig of my beer and stole the chance to check her out more properly. Black hair, shimmering like the coat of a jaguar. And just as dangerous.