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Apr. 3, 2007 Tumbling The old lady was about as short as you could get without bringing to someone’s mind a midget or a dwarf. She had long black hair, and the nametag on her shirt read MARY in white letters on a black background. She was gentle, and kind, and she was soft spoken. She was from a different generation, and moved now a bit slower than the other workers. She was a hard worker though, and always had been. There, in the busy place, she poured coffee and gathered donuts. She toasted and buttered bagels, and worked the cash register. Nobody noticed her, because there was no reason to. She was plain, and when she went home at night, it was not to any secret life, but to more ordinariness. There she worked hard too, in a sturdy but small house, made after the Second World War. Small and sturdy, like she. Long widowed, and without many hobbies, she rested there after her chores. Out there, the world had changed, and she missed the way things once had been, but tried not to think about it too often. She wasn’t one to feel sorry for herself. She wasn’t one to take much regard in her own self at all. Sometimes, like on that particular night, winds blew up some of the debris from the lawns and roads. It was a poor area, and as she looked out of from her drapes, she could see something, perhaps a milk carton, tumbling in circles a little bit off the ground, and then hitting the ground again and still turning. Along the street it went like that. It was unnoticed, as she was unnoticed. One anonymous thing was watching another. One tumbled, and one was stationary. Or was she? She was tumbling too. She knew where she was tumbling too, and it was to the end of her days. How much longer had she to refill the coffee machines in the day, and make change? How much longer had she to step laboriously up those old wooden steps to the front door every night, and then look out from drapes an hour later, at the wind and the garbage it blew down the roads? She thought. She was not worried. She had a feeling that she would go in the night, pass in the night. For some reason she thought that was how it would happen. That was how it had happened to her sister five years before. Well, she would like to dream first of an ocean liner, and her as the captain. The ocean liner would be on its way to the horizon, where a blood red sun was retiring for the night. She giggled to herself. Yes, that was the dream she would like to have one time, if it could be managed. Tats Journals White If housing for the poor is not set up all together, meaning building after building, block after block, then how is it set up? It can be put here and there where the regular suburbs grow, and then there are two buildings here, one building there, and so on. That way, in a summer park, by an outdoor table, you might see Tats Journal White, or at least someone like him. And if different districts amalgamate into one, and have to pool their monies and budgets, what then? Well before this happens, one local politician might want to do well for the old neighborhood, and spend the money before the deadline, on anything, as it goes. Then the park where you see Tats Journal White might be all spruced up with new things from landscaping to water parks to gazebos or any other thing. This all serves to foil and juxtapose Tats Journal White who goes to sit at a picnic table, even more. You know why? Well, you know why. But also, Tats Journal White is on the level real deal not just a suburban roughneck, because though rare, they do exist, like somehow a grape ends up in the banana section, or a raw bean is with the pink grapefruit. The whys of some things are not for the asking. Now, there is Tats Journal White, and he is in his twenties. Its summer and late afternoon. He is Tats because has tattoos but not token tattoos. Sleeves, you know, sleeves. He is White because he is Caucasian. He is Journals, because he sits writing there. He writes for one hour and rarely looks up. When he is finished he is finished. He closes the journal. He affixes the pen to the top. He was smoking but you wouldn’t notice that, because its very ingrained, very natural, like when someone knows a distant relative or some friend that swears so much that the profanity becomes less noticeable. Tats Journal White gets up and walks up the street, a long street, to the buildings. Sometime later you can see Tats Journal White at a grocery store and his woman is there. She is a lot like he is. She has groove, inroad, and comfortable foot wear. The store used to be middle class to upper middle class, even though it was only a grocery store. Tats Journal White went there then, because it was his neighborhood too. Then it was changed, and morphed into a place with another vibe; messier, dirtier, more chaotic, and somehow, people would swear, whether real or imagined, not as well lit. Tats Journal White went there too, with his woman, with his journal, with his ways, with the ink in the pen affixed to the journal, and of course with the ink under his skin also… ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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