LRL Concepts

I put my socks on one at a time. Carefully. No rush. Simon and Garfunkel have been playing on the radio for the past twenty minutes, but I’m only half aware of the music playing. I’m half in trance. My socks are soft and plushy. Walking in them is like walking on clouds, but I don’t want to walk today. It’s 15 degrees outside and all I want to do is stay home.

I retrieve my sneakers from the corner where I threw them yesterday. They landed on a pile of dirty clothes. I put them on, also without rush. I look at myself in the mirror, and see that my skin has dried more than usual and that my nose looks kind of wrinkly; it always happens during this time of the year. I have thousands of hairs on my head, each of them a mess, so I decide to wear pigtails today. I know I’m too old for that, but I’m out of conditioner. I do and redo the pigtails several times until I finally decide to pull my hair up in a bun, instead. I think buns make me look fat and older, but it makes more sense today.

I turn the music off, and I have the strange feeling that I’m the only one up at this hour. I look at my cat that rests belly up on the sofa and doesn’t seem to notice that the day has already started. I look at her for some time and wonder what it would be like to be like that; to rest and eat all day, and sleep all night. I look back up and notice that I’ve wasted ten minutes. I know there’s no point in delaying things. I’ll still have to go outside. I have no other choice; work needs to be done and I must do it. I don’t mind doing it, really, but it’s cold outside; winter’s here, and I would rather be sleeping.

I finally get the energy to walk out after giving myself a last look in the mirror. Not a sad sight, really, not a happy one either. I know I’ll be late if I don’t hurry. No worries. Once the cold air hits my face I’ll start moving faster. I don’t want to think about the weather outside. Instead, I try to imagine that it’s summer, but I know it won’t work. I remember I’m supposed to buy a cake for Susan’s birthday, but that’s not until Sunday; I don’t have to worry about it right now. She’s such an understanding kind of person; always in a good mood. I wonder how she would describe me if she was asked. How would I describe myself?

I imagine that if I ever wrote about my life I would never get past page 5. Not because I don’t have much to say, but because my life seems to happen in short contained phrases. Morning… Coffee? Lunch? Afternoon… Go for a drink? Night… See ya! Sometimes that’s all that’s necessary. In fact, when I think about it, 5 pages seem plenty.

I finally get to work, and it’s earlier than I thought. I should’ve known, late doesn’t seem to be in my schedule. Some days I wish it was. Late people get to make an entrance. I’ve never made an entrance; I would like to know what it feels like… Here comes Ally. She’s wearing that tight shirt again. I wonder if she knows that it’s a size too small for her. I guess I should say hi.

“Hey, morning” She’s wearing sandals, too. Does she know it’s cold outside?

“Hey”

“What’s up?”

“Not much.”

“Well, have a good day.”

Another successful conversation, which reminds me, I have to visit Lilly. She’s a good friend, but I think she’s a frustrated match maker. If she ever decided to write her story, it would probably look more like a dating portfolio of all the friends she has attempted to set up over the years: Brian, 42, single, great personality; Lisa, 35, secretary, successfully matched… I remember the last time she tried to set me up on a blind date. The guy spent 30 minutes explaining why the plural of “fish” was “fish” and not “fishes”.

“I know it appears in the dictionary, but it shouldn’t be. It’s like the word color. Its original spelling was colour, and look at it now. The same thing happened with “favourite”. That’s the reason why language is declining, the minute half the population starts using a word incorrectly they add it to the dictionary. We should go by the dictionary, not the other way around.”

“I understand.”

“It’s just tragic. The way we use words, I mean. We use them all the time, but we no longer think about their real meaning. We hardly question our choice of words anymore. Until one day someone decides to give it a new meaning and post it in Wikipedia; then everyone’s a linguist. Within a week everyone can tell you how words have changed in our contemporary world...”

Interesting guy; I wonder if perhaps he was a frustrated linguist. I guess that the book of his life would look more like a dictionary; or perhaps a list of words that have meant something special to him. Maybe words like “tennis shoes” or “thrice”.

I’ve been sitting at my desk for a while, but I have no idea how much time has passed. All I know is that for the last five minutes my finger has been pressing the “enter” key on my keyboard, but nothing’s happening. My computer’s acting up again. I think it was working fine five minutes ago. I guess I just hoped it would not freeze up on me today. Maybe if I give it a minute or two… No, it won’t work. That means I’m going to have to go find Herb, and he will not be happy about it.

Herb’s job was not really to work with computers originally, but he seemed to know more than the technician that came in every now and again. He also worked faster, so the boss unofficially decided to lighten his work load and make him the new “computer guy”. Everyone looks him up when there’s a problem, which usually only makes him angry. He argues that he’s busy, that he has too much work to do to be helping everyone with every small thing. I think he likes to be angry; it makes him feel important. When you talk to him, you have to be gentle and let him know that his help is greatly appreciated. Many people hate doing it, but they do it anyway just to get their problem fixed.

I finally find him sitting at someone’s desk. He looks at me and knows why I’m there. There’s only one reason why I would be there.

“Stop right there! I see you coming!”

“I need your help...”

“Of course you do. Everyone does. But do you think they ever say thank you!”

“I always do, Herb… but whenever you have the time, I know you’re busy…” He sighs.

“Alright, let me take a look, but I can’t promise anything.”

I thank him and we walk together. I wonder if he is always this temperamental. It’s hard to imagine him being sweet and loving. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would fall for a man like this. He must have a sweet side, though, everyone does… I think…but it’s hard to imagine it, especially because he is now cursing at my computer.

“Let me tell you something, this is the reason why Bill Gates is rich. He doesn’t sell a lot of computers because they’re good, it’s ‘cause they’re crap! You know how often you have to replace these things? At least every couple of years. Or you’ll have to pay some jackass half your age to fix them! That’s why I learned to do it on my own, you know. The problem is that now I get aggravated with every little problem everyone has with their computers.”

I let him get it out without interrupting. He doesn’t really expect me to respond. He’s not really having a conversation; he’s giving a monologue, and I’m not even sure I’m supposed to be hearing it. I’m sure that if he ever stopped yelling long enough to tell about his life, his story would be titled “This is why, damn it!” and it would be a long list of reasons why people bother him with their problems, every sentence ended with an exclamation point.

Even though Herb made no promises, he finally managed to fix my computer. I thank him profusely for his help and promise that next time I will bring him a batch of those muffins he loves. He smiles slightly and goes on to insult whoever is unfortunate enough to be next on his fix-it list. My hands return to the keyboard and glide slowly through it as I finish my work. I’m a methodical person; I don’t like to make mistakes. Or maybe, it’s just the weather that makes my hands stiff and difficult to use. Everyone else seems to move at a fast pace; but I seem to be running five seconds behind the clock.

When I’m finally finished I load paper into the printer and hit print. This printer is an old model that makes so much noise that I can swear I hear a quiet “yabba-dabba-doo” over all the racket it makes. The boss keeps telling me that she needs to get me a new one and that she’ll order it as soon as possible, but I don’t mind this one. Not really. I like to imagine that Fred Flintstone is the one etching letters on the paper as he would on a piece of rock, it makes me laugh. I also like the way the printer spits out the paper once it’s done, like it’s too busy to be bothered with old news. If a sudden surge of energy ever turned this printer to life, I bet it would have a lot to tell. It would start as a one page story with a polite “Welcome to the wonderful world of…” or “Congratulations, you’ve acquired a…” and end with “Enjoy!”; but that wouldn’t be enough. Eventually it would want to tell more stories; stories of its own. Maybe that’s why it makes so much noise; it’s protesting its lack of time and freedom. I wonder what it would call these stories… Maybe “The Font Chronicles”, typed using Times New Roman to start and then switched to a different font every two pages. On the other hand, it could all be gibberish with a nice font…

The printing’s done. I retrieve the papers from the printer and organize and staple my work and place it on my desk. That way I won’t forget to file it later where it belongs. Time seems to have gone by quicker than I had expected. It feels like coffee break, but it’s actually lunch time. Funny, I’m not really hungry. I walk to the Coffee Break Room, and as I near the door I hear a loud and clear: “¡Me cago en ná’!” That must be Mari, I’d know her voice anywhere. She’s slipping into Spanish, which means she’s angry. That’s how you know not to bother her that day, because she’s cursing in another language. She notices my presence and apologizes.

“Sorry, girl, I didn’t mean to scream. I hope I didn’t scare you or anything.”

“That’s ok.” I never mind her screaming; she doesn’t do it very often.

“It’s just one of those days.”

“What happened?”

“Frank, he’s an idiot, that’s what happened. Do you know what that little, pendejo did?”

“What?” A story’s coming, I know it.

“He comes to me and asks if I can help him translate something. Now, I know that little rat knows Spanish, ‘cause I know he does, but he says he’s a little rusty and I know it better…”

“I didn’t know he knew Spanish…”

“Yeah, well, he does. So anyway, I’m helping him translate some stuff and he has the nerve to tell me that I’m pronouncing my words wrong. Can you believe that? He’s telling me I’m not rolling the ‘r’ enough and that I have to put more emphasis on the ‘s’. You know, ‘cause it’s the proper way. I swear to you I almost smacked the shit out of him. But then I told my self: Mari, mija, cógelo con take it easy, you know that what goes around comes around, y este quiere cagar más arriba del culo…You know, one day that little fart is gonna trip in his own shit…”

I can’t help but laugh. Mari always makes me laugh, even when she doesn’t mean to. She’s an interesting person; she always has something to say. If she ever decided to put any of it on paper, her story would be written in two languages, which she would alternate depending on how she felt. Some of it would require translation, but all of it would be funny and exciting. It would be filled with proverbs and expressions and little snippets of wisdom that nobody but her own family could really understand, but that you would want to read anyway. It would probably be named “The rooster goes ‘kikirikí’ not cock-a-doodle-doo”; I don’t think anyone has used that title yet…

“Hey, girl, are you ok? You look all spaced out.”

“What?”

“You’re in another world, girl.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine...” I didn’t realize I was staring into space.

I take a cup of coffee Mari has offered me and I take a sip. I like the smell of it more than I like the taste. I drink it because it’s a waste to throw coffee away, but its sour taste doesn’t match its aroma of sunny mornings and home made breakfast.

I realize that the room has started to fill up with people. It seems like the whole office has decided to gather in this tiny space. I find out why: the boss has asked everyone to gather around, she has an announcement to make. There seems to be a gas leak somewhere in the building, and firefighters have been called. Nobody knows how long it’s going to take to check it out. Since its Friday she’s decided to let us go early; she’ll see us all on Monday. Everyone’s happy about that. It’s one of the reasons why people seem to like her; sometimes she’ll squeeze really tight, but then there are other times when she’ll relax her grip and give us some freedom. It’s all in the small details…

People want to go celebrate early this Friday; have an early happy hour.

“Wanna come?” They ask.

“Nah, thank you.” I decline the offer. Drunk in 15-degree winter is not my thing. Plus, I’m tired today, and all I want to do is go home.

Outside the walk is not as bad as I expected. I guess the sun has warmed up a bit. I miss the bus by a second; I’ll have to wait for the next one. Maybe I could have gone for a drink with the guys after all, but it’s too late now. I wonder what kinds of things they’ll talk about. I wonder what kinds of stories they’ll tell each other after a couple of beers. With each drink they have, will they start blurring the line between what’s real and what’s completely made up? Will they start embellishing their stories until all they’re telling are lies just so that they don’t feel left out? Maybe they’ll write a collective story, something intoxicating; an exaggeration of their lives, because they don’t think they’re interesting enough. “When the molehill turned into a mountain”, that’s what they should call it. Or maybe… maybe they won’t want to write a story at all, because when the alcohol leaves their systems they won’t want to remember being loud, dancing on the table, or telling that story about the time they had to pee outside because they couldn’t find a bathroom.

It took me double the time to get home than it did to get to work in the morning, but I feel relaxed. I walk into my apartment and I find my cat belly up in the same place where she was this morning. It’s past midday already, and she didn’t seem to move an inch. Sometimes I think she has the perfect life; she has food, and shelter and she doesn’t have to worry about the cold outside. Then again, I couldn’t imagine my life being stuck inside all the time. I rub her belly and she purrs a little; maybe she is content after all.

I go to my room. Everything’s in the same place where I left it; right where it should be: piles of papers to one side, a pile of books on the other and my bed in the middle. It reminds me I should clean soon, but not today. I take off my sneakers and throw them to the same corner where they always end up: on a pile of dirty laundry. I take my clothes off and put on my pajamas, but I leave my socks on. They’re soft and plushy, like clouds on a summer day. I let my hair down and remember that I still have no conditioner. I wonder when summer will be here. I wonder when I’ll feel the smell of sun and sand in my nostrils or the sound of muffled water in my ears. It doesn’t matter anymore, because now I’m under my covers, tucked all the way to my neck. I know it’s way too early to be in bed, but I don’t care, because it’s warm in here, and it’s winter outside, and I’d rather be sleeping.

LRL

[I'd rather be sleeping]