JessM
10-16-2010, 02:14 PM
this is less emotional and a little more fun than my last one. it is more of a scene than an actual story. enjoy i hopes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It posed a problem, that bottle.
It was a practiced courtesy at Cafe Poche that empty bottles be recycled in the plastic bin next to the front door. I had never found an empty glass bottle on a vacant table, or above an empty barstool, and definitely not adorning an otherwise spotless bar. It was rare the bin did not brim with customer gratifications, so I always made my own contributions no matter how full it appeared or neglectful I felt. But today, I could not. I could not place my empty bottle in that brown bin. I could not even approach the door, to be in that position, to walk in that direction. But I had this bottle still, with nowhere to retire it.
I would order at least one Mexican soda as I read, or wrote, or did whatever I wanted during my time there—“My,” the operative word, as in I shared my time with no one else, because my time dissolved all worries, alleviating the stresses of acting a son and roommate and functional person: enthusiasm, pressure, handshakes, words uttered, eye contact, and any other grace that threatened my spell of compact oneness. It was one of those moods where I belonged only to myself.
I sat and focused, sipping my soft drink. Life was good, until: “Hey buddy, what's goin' on?” A broad smile—I could not tell if it was genuine or not—and zealous enthusiasm insulted my seclusion. He could not know he was interrupting. I let it slide.
“Not a lot bro.” I feigned enthusiasm. I do not call close friends, “bro,” often. It is redundant. I only evoke the bastardized acknowledgement when I deal with acquaintances.
“Doing some work I see?” Ah, perceptive of him. He espied the typed paragraphs on my laptop's screen.
“Nah, just doing some writing of my own actually,” I replied cooly. A, “No,” is too abrupt. “Nah,” sounds much more relaxed and open—I did not want to seem rude and dismissive. “What're you up to?” I extended the conversation though I did not really care about what was up. He asked me a question so I asked him one. Fair is fair and courteous is courteous—it was one of those conversations, the strained kind when both parties feel impaired by an obligation to be polite. I scorned such run-ins and normally just avoided them altogether.
He said something about hanging out in the cafe—I really did not remember, or care. I was quickly losing interest and focus on what I was writing two minutes before. He threw off my groove without even an effort to abandon the conversation, while I was too sensitive and conscious of the impending awkwardness to accept the exchange for what it was and move on.
I did not move on like I should have: “Where're you going to school again...?”
He refreshed my memory and we proceeded to make another half minute of uninspired small talk until he finally bowed out and made his destination, the bathroom. I already knew the answers to every question I asked, all rehashed dialogue form other strained exchanges when neither of us, predictably, had anything substantive to say to one other.
I retreated into myself like a frightened turtle and let the lingering discomfort settle, feeling more awkward than I should have. I noticed how anxious I was to escape the conversation, and how stimulating it was not. I did not value those superficial bonds substantiated by longevity; I valued relationships defined by closeness and feeling, but there was none of that there, even after more than a decade of empty acknowledgements. I was confident we had little in common, emotionally speaking. Maybe we liked the same bands or something, but nothing deep; I tend to think the glass is half empty. If there was a bonding point where we could have scheduled an emotional rendezvous, surely it would have been found by now.
So it was over and I killed my fizzy drink, looking around. With a burst of astonishment I noticed he took a seat at an empty table next to the front door, which was next to the empty-bottle bin, which was where I needed to be to throw my bottle away. ****. A second encounter would surely unmask my impatience with him and total indifference. What could I do: Another bro-slap? Another exchange? Or maybe a casual nod of recognition?
I did not have any of it in me so I left through the side exit. I left the damn bottle where it was, for someone else to recycle, and fled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It posed a problem, that bottle.
It was a practiced courtesy at Cafe Poche that empty bottles be recycled in the plastic bin next to the front door. I had never found an empty glass bottle on a vacant table, or above an empty barstool, and definitely not adorning an otherwise spotless bar. It was rare the bin did not brim with customer gratifications, so I always made my own contributions no matter how full it appeared or neglectful I felt. But today, I could not. I could not place my empty bottle in that brown bin. I could not even approach the door, to be in that position, to walk in that direction. But I had this bottle still, with nowhere to retire it.
I would order at least one Mexican soda as I read, or wrote, or did whatever I wanted during my time there—“My,” the operative word, as in I shared my time with no one else, because my time dissolved all worries, alleviating the stresses of acting a son and roommate and functional person: enthusiasm, pressure, handshakes, words uttered, eye contact, and any other grace that threatened my spell of compact oneness. It was one of those moods where I belonged only to myself.
I sat and focused, sipping my soft drink. Life was good, until: “Hey buddy, what's goin' on?” A broad smile—I could not tell if it was genuine or not—and zealous enthusiasm insulted my seclusion. He could not know he was interrupting. I let it slide.
“Not a lot bro.” I feigned enthusiasm. I do not call close friends, “bro,” often. It is redundant. I only evoke the bastardized acknowledgement when I deal with acquaintances.
“Doing some work I see?” Ah, perceptive of him. He espied the typed paragraphs on my laptop's screen.
“Nah, just doing some writing of my own actually,” I replied cooly. A, “No,” is too abrupt. “Nah,” sounds much more relaxed and open—I did not want to seem rude and dismissive. “What're you up to?” I extended the conversation though I did not really care about what was up. He asked me a question so I asked him one. Fair is fair and courteous is courteous—it was one of those conversations, the strained kind when both parties feel impaired by an obligation to be polite. I scorned such run-ins and normally just avoided them altogether.
He said something about hanging out in the cafe—I really did not remember, or care. I was quickly losing interest and focus on what I was writing two minutes before. He threw off my groove without even an effort to abandon the conversation, while I was too sensitive and conscious of the impending awkwardness to accept the exchange for what it was and move on.
I did not move on like I should have: “Where're you going to school again...?”
He refreshed my memory and we proceeded to make another half minute of uninspired small talk until he finally bowed out and made his destination, the bathroom. I already knew the answers to every question I asked, all rehashed dialogue form other strained exchanges when neither of us, predictably, had anything substantive to say to one other.
I retreated into myself like a frightened turtle and let the lingering discomfort settle, feeling more awkward than I should have. I noticed how anxious I was to escape the conversation, and how stimulating it was not. I did not value those superficial bonds substantiated by longevity; I valued relationships defined by closeness and feeling, but there was none of that there, even after more than a decade of empty acknowledgements. I was confident we had little in common, emotionally speaking. Maybe we liked the same bands or something, but nothing deep; I tend to think the glass is half empty. If there was a bonding point where we could have scheduled an emotional rendezvous, surely it would have been found by now.
So it was over and I killed my fizzy drink, looking around. With a burst of astonishment I noticed he took a seat at an empty table next to the front door, which was next to the empty-bottle bin, which was where I needed to be to throw my bottle away. ****. A second encounter would surely unmask my impatience with him and total indifference. What could I do: Another bro-slap? Another exchange? Or maybe a casual nod of recognition?
I did not have any of it in me so I left through the side exit. I left the damn bottle where it was, for someone else to recycle, and fled.