She was nothing short of a fire hazard.

My house isn’t as filthy as her apartment; quite the opposite…but I got scared because I understood her obsession. At least, I think I did. I completely relate to the comfort that items give me. That cookbook, that broken necklace, the rusted wind chime. Things that I leave right where they are because that’s where they’re supposed to be because that’s where they’ve always been.

The end of the world is not an excuse to be tacky.

I liken it to the extreme pressure a death row inmate must face when he leans across the table and tells his lawyer what he wants for his last meal. There are simply too many delicious food combos to consider: do you go classic and simple and keep it all PB&J, or do you demand a choice filet with a rich peppercorn sauce and Baked Alaska for dessert?

I would have prayed, but I had to merge.

And then, for the duration of my sojourn into Scooba, all I could think about was what the way you drive a car says about you. I mean, I have no doubt in my mind at all that this man is a tightwad. Albeit, he might be a well-intentioned tightwad…but come on, you don’t drive a car Frenching on a steering wheel to that degree and not know how to stretch a dollar until the eagle grins.

That’d be on account of my “driver’s lung.”

No, what I’ve done, you see, is over the years, I’ve developed what I call my “driver’s lung.” I didn’t do it with focused breathing or yoga lessons, like a runner does – why run, when you can drive? I did it with nothing but my sheer will power and a stern, unwavering constitution. (And yes, it took a lot of convincing and a serious amount of eyes-wide-open-praying, but I succeeded).

“The magic stops here,” She said.

This particular line of Brazilians need el banero. The bathroom. I could hear that word, banero, being repeated time and time again. I was afraid if we didn’t get them to one, it might “put us on the news.” I couldn’t leave my current post; nor could Denny…so we waited. I waited, rather, she was already near golf-clap-fisticuffs over a stroller incident that involved two children, a gay man, and a woman in a wheelchair.

Am I merely a heathen, now? Is that what this heartburn is indicating?

Why, I had to ask myself when she left, did it bother me so much to have a Bible on my desk? Why was I so frustrated and put-out by her constantly inviting me to the Chapel for worship? Why was I aggravated at her asking if I’d mind doing the Seven Stations of the Cross at Easter, on campus? Why, why, why?

God had given him one-half of His Own Right Eye.

For a long time, I just suffered the fools gladly right through the Tag and the Chorus of every song I had to sing for the glory of God and Uncle Larry. I spent most of my time singing as if church would be over when I finished, which came across as divine inspiration, I imagine.

“And I said, Well, excuse me, I didn’t know you had a copyright on the bow tie.”

Kidding, aside (like, just put it on the desk, by the scissors), I came back from my Comp. I class, with a different pep in my step, and an untied shoelace which almost created an awkward run-in, literally, with the College Algebra professor who was coming in the door, not looking where she was going. Fortunately, the Coke machine caught my stumble and saved the day. Go Coke.

I stress when there’s nothing to stress about because I’m so ready to prove that I can handle stress.

If it weren’t for my weak kidneys, I could have learned how they first infiltrated our waterways. I couldn’t wait, though, and so all I heard was something about a Korean man and a gift to his sick sister. Somehow, that translated into a Snakehead.

$3 Makers

Three stools down, to my right, is John.
He won’t drink it if it’s not Absolute, he informs me.
Next to John is a nameless man, hands stained with paint,
who came in with him.
He’s on the phone apologizing for a septic tank that’s backed up.
He’d installed it last month.
 
To my left is another John, white and beardless
and old [...]