Sarky Devotchka
12-25-2005, 07:48 PM
I was working on editing some stuff I wrote awhile ago because I thought I'd be semi-productive today. Anyway, I can't really tell if it's interesting or funny. I'm looking for constructive criticism and/or blind praise.
The Day the Pope Died
I didn’t want to tell anyone about this. Sleeping at work always seems like a great idea, sleeping overnight that is, when you’re tired and far from home and need to go there in a few hours anyway. In this case it seemed like a horrible idea, but better than any other choice.
When I got off the train at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I suddenly remembered a nearby McDonald’s that was positioned awkwardly enough to be avoided on most days. Hungry enough to traverse the intersection, I made my way over and gloriously indeed, they were open. “Number eight please”, the words were so small and raspy I was asked for them again. “Eight”, I repeated, smelling of cigarettes and booze. “Please”. While waiting, I stood up straight and still with my eyes wide (not too wide) to avoid the stern judgment of the a.m. employees. I pretended that I had not been up all night and grabbed my sad sack of breakfast burritos with great cheer and gusto. I’m sure they were fooled.
My half-mile walk to work was quick and miserable; I’d taken off my heels, but the dress flats I’d changed into might as well have been lined with shards of glass. When I reached the front door, I saw that the store was filled with the soft brightness of morning light and I half-expected someone to be in there building picture frames...or sleeping, as I had planned to do. I hesitated for a moment before turning my key to release the lock with a heavy clack.
Sleeping on a table didn’t worry me, I’d taken many a nap there on
slow days; I was prepared for a good 5-hour rest. Before settling in, I flipped on the radio to NPR out of habit and for company. British people were talking about the Pope having died. I didn’t think much of it, not being Catholic and often generally unsympathetic when very old people die. The Pope dying just seemed like another welcome sign of the apocalypse, so I laid my head down on a stack of paper towels for a pillow -- letting the soft stream of BBC news reports dissolve into white noise.
To entertain myself, I let the over-dramatized events of the evening/morning flicker behind my closed eyelids. At that party, that “get together”, throughout the night and at the end; I kept shouting, “eff that noise!” over and over...first to be funny, then with all sincerity. The “noise” being tricky boys, mixed emotions and fast girls. The hostess took a picture of her crotch (in white panties) with a polaroid and passed it around. My cohort and I rolled our eyes and whispered, exasperated, “she’s 28 for Christ’s sake!”. We hated her--her hair, her face, her makeup, her dated “I’m in art school” ensemble. Jealous and disgusted we were, because some of the boys liked it. A lot. We were disappointed and ashamed because some were the boys we wanted for ourselves. We deserved better! Or maybe we should’ve taken Polaroids of our tits?
Then there was that nice girl that everyone likes for some reason even though she’s plain ugly and seems to move and speak at half-speed. She’s with Him now, the one I thought I’d hit it off with so well. I tried so hard. I smiled, I cooed, I punched, I spat. He met her before me. In the bathroom he said he didn’t like her very much, but a hour later they were holding hands. She was still at the party when I tried to kiss him on the porch. We were laughing, arguing, slapping and pinching when I moved close and said, “here, I want to try something, put your mouth on my mouth”. He walked away without a word.
Looking back at what I could’ve done or should’ve done made me want to cry and puke, but I did neither. I adjusted my makeshift pillow and focused on achieving a perfect light sleep that would allow me to jump up to a standing position if I heard anyone approach. Of course this made it impossible to sleep because I was also trying to think of a valid excuse for being there--in case my boss or a coworker did decide to show up (or in case someone decided to break in and smash me in the head with a hammer). I’d swaddled myself in a frost white plastic bag for warmth, which although quite stylish, made it all the more difficult to formulate a pop-up-jump-down-act-normal escape plan.
I slept for about two hours off and on, despite (or because of) the
prattling whir of nonsense going on inside my head. The late morning came and I hadn’t overslept or been discovered or accidentally or purposefully killed, so I started the day per usual. When a coworker came by to drop off supplies, all I said was, “hey, you know the Pope died?”.
The Day the Pope Died
I didn’t want to tell anyone about this. Sleeping at work always seems like a great idea, sleeping overnight that is, when you’re tired and far from home and need to go there in a few hours anyway. In this case it seemed like a horrible idea, but better than any other choice.
When I got off the train at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I suddenly remembered a nearby McDonald’s that was positioned awkwardly enough to be avoided on most days. Hungry enough to traverse the intersection, I made my way over and gloriously indeed, they were open. “Number eight please”, the words were so small and raspy I was asked for them again. “Eight”, I repeated, smelling of cigarettes and booze. “Please”. While waiting, I stood up straight and still with my eyes wide (not too wide) to avoid the stern judgment of the a.m. employees. I pretended that I had not been up all night and grabbed my sad sack of breakfast burritos with great cheer and gusto. I’m sure they were fooled.
My half-mile walk to work was quick and miserable; I’d taken off my heels, but the dress flats I’d changed into might as well have been lined with shards of glass. When I reached the front door, I saw that the store was filled with the soft brightness of morning light and I half-expected someone to be in there building picture frames...or sleeping, as I had planned to do. I hesitated for a moment before turning my key to release the lock with a heavy clack.
Sleeping on a table didn’t worry me, I’d taken many a nap there on
slow days; I was prepared for a good 5-hour rest. Before settling in, I flipped on the radio to NPR out of habit and for company. British people were talking about the Pope having died. I didn’t think much of it, not being Catholic and often generally unsympathetic when very old people die. The Pope dying just seemed like another welcome sign of the apocalypse, so I laid my head down on a stack of paper towels for a pillow -- letting the soft stream of BBC news reports dissolve into white noise.
To entertain myself, I let the over-dramatized events of the evening/morning flicker behind my closed eyelids. At that party, that “get together”, throughout the night and at the end; I kept shouting, “eff that noise!” over and over...first to be funny, then with all sincerity. The “noise” being tricky boys, mixed emotions and fast girls. The hostess took a picture of her crotch (in white panties) with a polaroid and passed it around. My cohort and I rolled our eyes and whispered, exasperated, “she’s 28 for Christ’s sake!”. We hated her--her hair, her face, her makeup, her dated “I’m in art school” ensemble. Jealous and disgusted we were, because some of the boys liked it. A lot. We were disappointed and ashamed because some were the boys we wanted for ourselves. We deserved better! Or maybe we should’ve taken Polaroids of our tits?
Then there was that nice girl that everyone likes for some reason even though she’s plain ugly and seems to move and speak at half-speed. She’s with Him now, the one I thought I’d hit it off with so well. I tried so hard. I smiled, I cooed, I punched, I spat. He met her before me. In the bathroom he said he didn’t like her very much, but a hour later they were holding hands. She was still at the party when I tried to kiss him on the porch. We were laughing, arguing, slapping and pinching when I moved close and said, “here, I want to try something, put your mouth on my mouth”. He walked away without a word.
Looking back at what I could’ve done or should’ve done made me want to cry and puke, but I did neither. I adjusted my makeshift pillow and focused on achieving a perfect light sleep that would allow me to jump up to a standing position if I heard anyone approach. Of course this made it impossible to sleep because I was also trying to think of a valid excuse for being there--in case my boss or a coworker did decide to show up (or in case someone decided to break in and smash me in the head with a hammer). I’d swaddled myself in a frost white plastic bag for warmth, which although quite stylish, made it all the more difficult to formulate a pop-up-jump-down-act-normal escape plan.
I slept for about two hours off and on, despite (or because of) the
prattling whir of nonsense going on inside my head. The late morning came and I hadn’t overslept or been discovered or accidentally or purposefully killed, so I started the day per usual. When a coworker came by to drop off supplies, all I said was, “hey, you know the Pope died?”.