Are you a professor? Just continuing ed?
I've seen you around here pretty often, toting a giant laptop case, looking like you're headed someplace, business? Facebook? Your glasses and sweaters say school. Your ambling gait says student for life.
I can't tell. I might never tell.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
New deacon at church
He's shaky, he knows he's new. He admits he's scared within the first few lines. Everyone can tell he's not quite sure of himself, but he's been preparing his homily a long time. It shows.
The people cooperate, with polite laughs and nods here and there. He rolls forward with the passionate energy every twenty-something has, once they find their niche. There's a dash of sweat on his forehead, he's trying hard to remember exactly which lines to quote, which verses to cite, and how to bundle them all together.
He wants to enlighten the masses. He doesn't want to convert, but to preach. Each word he says feels more like the inherent simplicity of Gandhi or Confucius than a Papal encyclical. Somehow, he pulls it off. His words reach those gathered there to listen. They're simple, elegant, and transcend his light accent and slightly jumbled grammar. His eyes shine over the smile on his face, knowing he's reached the people. He's done God's work.
Now to wake up tomorrow, and keep doing it.
The people cooperate, with polite laughs and nods here and there. He rolls forward with the passionate energy every twenty-something has, once they find their niche. There's a dash of sweat on his forehead, he's trying hard to remember exactly which lines to quote, which verses to cite, and how to bundle them all together.
He wants to enlighten the masses. He doesn't want to convert, but to preach. Each word he says feels more like the inherent simplicity of Gandhi or Confucius than a Papal encyclical. Somehow, he pulls it off. His words reach those gathered there to listen. They're simple, elegant, and transcend his light accent and slightly jumbled grammar. His eyes shine over the smile on his face, knowing he's reached the people. He's done God's work.
Now to wake up tomorrow, and keep doing it.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Checkout guy
Swiping item after item at 11:00 pm should get to you. But as run-down as this guy is, his clothes don't reflect it. After 12 hours behind the checkout lane, with the smell of the dusty, spilled-beer-and-milk coated belt the norm in his nose, his tie is still creased perfectly and snapped tight with a cravat. His slacks are pressed to a point that could cut through oak branches. His shoes are slightly scuffed, but still shined from the morning.
He looks like he could go on non-stop. Even with a scowl on his face and a mean look darting above the bags of his eyes, he's completely ready for anything that will come his way tonight, be it just a few drinks at the bar, meeting royalty, or the apocalypse.
He looks like he could go on non-stop. Even with a scowl on his face and a mean look darting above the bags of his eyes, he's completely ready for anything that will come his way tonight, be it just a few drinks at the bar, meeting royalty, or the apocalypse.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Girl at Cafe.
The first thing you see is her guitar. It's roughly the size of her, inky black, with tons of mother-of-pearl inlaid all over. Fancy barbed-wire designs ring the sound hole. The whole thing glistens in the dim light, each curve reflecting a little differently, like a grand piano on a stage. Some musician's dedication is scrawled onto the top in silver ink.
The strap that holds the instrument on her wiry frame is harsh fluorescent pink, with a black checkerboard motif. Perhaps an Avril Lavigne custom model.
She talks like a wasp flaps its wings, with spits and starts, twitches and buzzes.
How she has 7 guitars.
How this one is her baby.
How her doctor has no rules on what to eat, and what not to eat, as she slams a Starbucks Frappucino, the first of three.
How she tried Ritalin, but she doesn't take it anymore.
How you might recognize this song that she's about to play, but after playing three bars, she can't sing it or play more because it gets harder.
A constant barrage of statements and quips flies out of her mouth, like a verbal seizure. Everything fires at the same time. She's out of control, gunning at random, and there's no sign of the ammo running out.
The strap that holds the instrument on her wiry frame is harsh fluorescent pink, with a black checkerboard motif. Perhaps an Avril Lavigne custom model.
She talks like a wasp flaps its wings, with spits and starts, twitches and buzzes.
How she has 7 guitars.
How this one is her baby.
How her doctor has no rules on what to eat, and what not to eat, as she slams a Starbucks Frappucino, the first of three.
How she tried Ritalin, but she doesn't take it anymore.
How you might recognize this song that she's about to play, but after playing three bars, she can't sing it or play more because it gets harder.
A constant barrage of statements and quips flies out of her mouth, like a verbal seizure. Everything fires at the same time. She's out of control, gunning at random, and there's no sign of the ammo running out.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Woman at Family Fare
Blond cornrows on a dark scalp will always jump out in everyday places. They look unique among the power cuts of average Joes getting out of work or school, that reach for the bottles of fancy beer or lox-infused bagels.
She's average in almost every way: average build, average clothes, two occasionally-screaming kids in tow, a cart full of groceries. She's yelling at someone at the other end of the line on her cell phone, though. No, she won't be home tonight. It doesn't matter where the kids are as long as they're with her. She's better than that.
She's probably moving in with her sister, now; carrying one or two small bags of clothes, hoping to find herself and to find a new home.
She knows it's time to move on. But can she?
She's average in almost every way: average build, average clothes, two occasionally-screaming kids in tow, a cart full of groceries. She's yelling at someone at the other end of the line on her cell phone, though. No, she won't be home tonight. It doesn't matter where the kids are as long as they're with her. She's better than that.
She's probably moving in with her sister, now; carrying one or two small bags of clothes, hoping to find herself and to find a new home.
She knows it's time to move on. But can she?
Monday, August 22, 2011
A new reason for this blog
Well, what started as a New Year's resolution has pretty much failed. But there might be a way to save A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.
There are tons of places like Hemingway's cafe, the namesake of that story. And just like in the story, there are tons of interesting, unique people in each one: the barflies, the coffeehouse dwellers, the urban nomads, the next-door-neighbors-down-the-street.
This is going to be a look at those everyday people, one at a time. Some will be friends or family, some will be total strangers. Some will get a chance to tell their story, others will have their lives filled in for them. Some of them will have pictures attached; others, you'll have to imagine.
They'll all be real, though. That much is for sure.
There are tons of places like Hemingway's cafe, the namesake of that story. And just like in the story, there are tons of interesting, unique people in each one: the barflies, the coffeehouse dwellers, the urban nomads, the next-door-neighbors-down-the-street.
This is going to be a look at those everyday people, one at a time. Some will be friends or family, some will be total strangers. Some will get a chance to tell their story, others will have their lives filled in for them. Some of them will have pictures attached; others, you'll have to imagine.
They'll all be real, though. That much is for sure.
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