People I'm Next To

I'm next to this dude. I want to be fair, but I'm not going to be, this guys is a redneck. He has facial hair, terrible terrible facial hair, patchy and disreputable it matches his clothing. He is wearing an A-tee, commonly known as a wife beater. If this isn't a description of his love life yet, it soon will be. So other than being a redneck in my general area, what is odd about this guy? He is drinking tea, Peach Passion to be exact.

I'm next to this girl. We are in a dark bar, so I can't tell much about her except she has hair down to her chin, and she is maybe about shoulder height on me. There is a gentleman on the other side of the bar gesturing to her. When she sees him she hurriedly brushes past me, but as she does she spills her drink. The drink hops out of her glass and splashes into her face, then bounces and drips back into her glass. Here is what I do, I laugh. I laugh a lot. I laugh with fits and convulsions. The now embarrassed girl pushes past the asshole guffawing at her, me. But she doesn't count on my flailing arms. I strike her. I strike her in the back of the head. This causes her to spill her drink back into her face. Which causes me to laugh more. I try to sputter out an apology, and offer her a new drink. But it most comes out as barely repressed chuckles. I feel bad now, I'm sorry girl.

I'm next to the woman. She has a black sleeveless dress on, with matching black sandals. She is maybe in her mid to late thirties, and at first seemed unremarkable. She has been sitting near me for a few hours, and I didn't really take notice of her, except when I have paused to think, and gaze off into space. Space in this case is coincidentally the back of her head. It's a fairly normal back of a head. Dark long brown hair, slightly graying, and done into a few thick braids. Whats concerning me is that these braids are driving me insane. Her hair is made into four braids. Their is a big center braid running down the middle, and on the right side their are two thin braids, and the left there is one similarly sized braid. This asymmetry doesn't present a problem to me at first, but over the course of the day I keep searching for the fifth braid. I'll be staring at her hair, thinking of something else, and not really looking at it. When suddenly it just feel...

I'm next to this guy. His hair is slightly receded but, is making up for its loss by being shoulder length. It curls out slightly at the bottom, which makes me smile. His nose isn't big, but it does dominate his face. At least that is how he looks from the side, and frankly I refuse to look at this guy in anything but profile. I see him almost every day, when thumbing through my change. The person I'm next to is Thomas Jefferson. I mean probably not really, and if he is the long dead statesman, inventor, and architect known as Thomas Jefferson, then he is a really drunk creepy version. You know the version that made his slaves sleep with him. I'm in a good mood, so I lean over and tell him, 'Hey buddy, you look like our third president.' This wounds him. He gives me sad eyes, and I feel terrible, this is not the reaction I expected. He kind of grunts and walks away. But, I quickly stop feeling bad and get indignant. Who wouldn't want to look like the i...

I'm next to this guy. He is thin, super thin. He has long stringy hair, which is matched by a long stringy goatee. His nose is impressively big. He has a burrito on a plate in front of him, it is only about half done, but from the way he is poking at it with his fork I think he is all done. From what I can gather he is regaling his table with his high opinions on the 90's scifi movie Dark City. It is a pretty nerdy speech, but I suppose I'm pretty nerdy too, because I can tell which movie he is talking about from a few eavesdropped sentences. Also I totally agree with him, Dark City rules. What's weird is that is he is squatting on his chair. Like feet square on the chair, perched. He has been sitting like this for at least an hour. Just crowing about weird movies and picking at his food and waving his wildly beak-ish nose around. Every now and then he gets animated and waves his arms around. He is so perfect.

I'm next to the people that stare at you when you parallel park. They are horrible people. These particular ones and sitting on their front porch. They are dressed in worn comfortable house clothes. It is painful to be judged by someone in sweatpants. But here we are, what woeful a impasse. I hate them. I want everyone to know that. I hate their eyes. I hate their distant voices. I hate their hands hiding the chuckles, chuckles that I also hate. Today I can't park either. I pull in and out umpteen times then I speed off looking foir a farther away spot. A spot! I will parallel park in this spot now. It will be good. I am safe from scrutiny. Safe from eyes and chuckles. Safe from sweat pants. Except, I'm not. I'm next to the people that stare at you when you parallel park. God damn it. These are different people. Maybe. I mean they have different shapes. This is an older couple walking their dog. But despite having changed their meat suits i t...

I'm next to this guy with outrageous eyebrows. He is tall and thin, with long curly hair. His hair is a light brown, and is wild enough that it should be the most remarkable hair on his body. But defying the odds are his eyebrows. Unreasonably big bushy and at least three shades darker than his hair, these twin monsters hypnotically dominate something like three fifths of his face. Additionally he has a yellow shirt on, the back of which reads, 'Space is the Place'. He is ordering a small to go coffee, but when the girl hands him his drink, there is a brief exchange. I'm not near enough at this point to hear them, but I edge forward to listen in. Essentially he has asked his small amount of drink poured into a large to go cup, I arrive on the scene just in time to hear the barrista saying, 'Oh you are back for another.' Then he slips away to the creme station. This is the site of his crime. Eyebrows fills up his cup. Keep in mind though this was the larg...

I'm next to this guy with an automatic caulking gun. His hair is buzzed short, and he has a scruffy beard. He has a septum piercing, and outlined tribal tattoos. We are in my parking lot, while he puts a new windshield on my car. I have come out to see how it is going, and he engages me in conversation. He is full of little verbal gems. This is how he starts: 'You dig my automatic caulking gun? Everybody does.' I can only nod. He seems to take this as an awed silence in the face of his gun. Truly though, it is pretty cool. He starts giving me advice on managing my new windshield, I thought I could just, you know, look through it. But there are a few point to clarify. There are two strips of painters tape on the top of the window, running to the roof of my car. I am instructed to keep those on for 24 hours. He looks at me with serious eyes. 'Trust me, just leave those, just trust me.' I must have looked a unimpressed with the bits of paper and glue holdi...

I'm next to a gentleman. He has dark, thick hair, and heavy brow. He has tiny dark eyes, a large nose and not much of a chin. He is hunched over and squinting at a laptop, and hitting the keys with large, thick fingers. I should say he is pounding the keys on his laptop. Each halting blow makes me wince a little for his keyboard. For all keyboards really. He is strong looking, but this may not have anything to do with his frame, it may have more to do with my sense of cosmic fairness. He looks so much like a cro-magnon that if he isn't tossing cars around then it is not fair for him to look this way. Something is wrong with his computer. It has been wrong for the better part of an hour. At first he wasn't upset, just dimly amazed that his electronic miracle machine has failed him. He would make the same face if he found out the earth wasn't flat. Over the past hour he hasn't seemed to make any headway. In reality I imagine he is installing and updating d...

I'm next to this silly looking dude. He has an ugly pink shirt on with a diagonal blue stripe across it. He has cargo shorts that go to just above his ankle, white crew socks and white tennis shoes. He is walking behind me, but quicker so at some point in my creepy stalking of him he moves past me. Thats when I'm see his face. My friend is with me and describes his look perfectly in on word, doofus. It is so true. He has doofus eyes, a doofus nose, doofus cheeks. This dude is a doofus. But he doesn't use words like one. "That mother fucking fuck master." I know, I know, he said fuck master, that is awesome. I just want to ram my fist through his shit bird forehead. One more time, ONE MORE TIME! And my fucking boot will jam every one of his stupid bastard teeth down his stupid bastard throat." This carries on, with enough venom that I make sure to not be seen writing down his crazy words. Best part though, doofus voice. He sounds like a cartoon don...

I'm next to this dog. I overheard it's owner referring to it as an Irish setter. I also heard him referring to it as a him. It is not a him, it is an it. I won't blanket this statement over all dogs, but this one is certainly a monster, and doesn't deserve a gender. This thing reeks, like decaying meat. Its scent makes me wonder if this is really a dog zombie, a shambling decaying canine corpse that through mystical or viral means has remained animated post mortem. So you know, it smells bad. Normally I would be annoyed that this thing existed, but then give it no further thought. But it is inside, next to me, sitting. It's bullshit owner just walks it into the cafe I am sitting in. He hastily mutters something of an apology for bringing this creature inside, but begins ordering without waiting for an answer. This is an eatery! There is food here! Food I'm going to eat! This privileged son of a bitch just marched this moving pile of filth in. I can al...

I'm next to this woman. She has disheveled hair escaping from a loose pony tail, and thin glasses sliding down her nose. She has a red shirt on, the front has a Labrador on it, and the back reads, 'Paws down the best beer around'. She has a backpack, and a plastic bag full of paper. Apparently she is married. The ring and engagement ring are tight on her finger, like they haven't been off in a long long time. She orders a beer, a coffee, a glass of water and a cookie. She takes her orders and sits down. She pulls some of the paper out of her plastic bag and begin reading. A few minutes later she stands up and walks back to the counter, and looks very confused, "I think I left my cookie up here." The employee behind the counter says very directly, "No you took it." The woman half heartedly snoops around the counter, looking under a newspaper, behind the take away cups. Then after a few seconds she looks over at her seat and says, "Ohh ...

I'm next to a man. I'm next to a marvelous chipmunk man. He is in the car next to me so I can only see his blue polo shirt and his head. He has big busy eyebrows, twinkling eyes, a tiny nose, and big wonderful cheeks. He is chatting away on his cell phone, happy and care free, and for every word he flexes and jiggles his cheeks like 3 times. They move so fast, like the wings of a humming bird, fleshy fatty little wings anyway. This makes him look so happy. It makes me want him to be happy. When he pauses to listen to the other line he makes them go up and down in deep thought. It makes me want to cry that this red light is going to end, so goddamn sad. I'm gonna stop taking notes, I dont want to waste a single moment of my time with him.

I'm next to this dude. He has a scruffy beard, unkempt hair, a loose t-shirt, low shorts made from corduroy patches, sandals, and of course a thick hemp necklace. Long story short this dude looks like a hippie. Not your revolutionary 60s hippie who changed the world with flowers love and group sex, but new nineties, parents pay the rent hippie. I have doubts about the first kind's existence anyway. I think they are just the bronzed baby shoe version of today's hippie. Regardless of the perhaps unicorn nature of true cool hippies, this guy is a mildly stinky reality. He has made his way to the counter of the shop I'm at,and is currently busy incriminating himself on drug charges. First he asks the guy behind the counter if he would like to take part in an abnormal psych science project. I've seen horror movies, and romantic comedies, the answer to this should always be no. The guy behind the counter doesn't have the same tastes in cinema as me, so he...

I'm next to this woman. She may be the start of the apocalypse. She is wearing a white t-shirt under some sort of extremely unflattering dress. She has a hat pulled low, like covering her eyebrows low, and she is wearing loafers. Under the loafers are white socks pulled up to mid calf. Under the socks is sickly pallid skin. Not just pale sickly, but rainbow blotchy. Something is really off about her skin. She jitters. Brief convulsions, that look like she is extremely cold for a few seconds. She is coughing too. Deep but muffled coughs that shake her whole body. Those coughs scare me. She could be Patient Zero. Which means I could be Patient One. I don't want to be mean and move away from her, she looks like she is having a rough time. But I don't want to have tiny invaders from her cough creep into my body and liquefy my organs. Politeness versus preservation. Also she is eating a rice krispy treat the size of her head.

I'm next to this talkative gentleman. He is talking to someone else he is next to. They are not out together, this second guy, like me, just happens to be next to the first guy. The first guy has a killer mustache and is dressed in office wear. Office Stash looks like he just had a long day and is excited to tell his tale, the other guy is wearing a black cowboy type shirt and looks like he wishes he hadn't been polite enough to start listening to Office Stash in the first place. But the Cowboy Shirt is trapped. Office Stash has been here all day apparently, waiting on an absent gentleman to come and finalize a deal to purchase a motorcycle. Office Stash is upset. Cowboy Shirt is learning about this, a lot. Office Stash is waving his motorcycle title around to prove he owns a motorcycle. Cowboy Shirt nods. Office Stash is talking about the specifics of the frame. Cowboy Shirt nods. Office Stash is talking about this being the fourth time this buyer has stood him ...

I'm next to this guy with a white shirt. It's a plain white t, not an undershirt, but plain and white like an undershirt. He has calf length shorts that he has made from old jeans, and sneakers. He has a bit of a beard going on, and his hair is uncombed. He has been hanging out drinking for a while today. Every time he walks up to the bar for another drink he starts to chat. He chats funny. His words are fast but clear, and every now and then a grandiose word pops out. They aren't mixed in smoothly, but they are still at least mildly pleasing. It's like when you have some ready made macaroni and cheese, and the cheese product powder clumps up in weird little balls. So one second you are eating a blend of fake cheese and noodle, then suddenly it is all fake cheese, bright, clear, kind of chalky fake cheese. He says, "You don't serve Pabst, I guess you don't care about the proletariat, whatever." He has a slight condescending tone, and but ...

I'm next to this dude. He is in his mid 40s perhaps, and has a bright blue shirt, and a black tie. The tie is tight, but his collar is loose, so I can see some of his neck skin right next to the knot of his tie. His skin is sweaty. Not hot outside sweaty, or like a healthy I just ran a few miles sweaty, but like southern lawyer in a 50s film sweaty. Parts of him are just slick and others are dry, seemingly at random. He is typing in a sporadic fashion too. These quick frantic bursts, then periods of slow thoughtful index finger taps. His phone is ringing. Holy shit, he talks just like he sweats and types. Its like this high pitched light speed burst followed by a meandering slow low tone. He is upset about something, but I can't make out what he is saying. He hangs up, and goes back to the typing. Now the typing feels urgent, and his face is intense. What's going on? Has someone been kidnapped? Are his stocks plummeting? He is getting up! Ok, he is talking t...

I'm next to this guy. He is offensively stereotypical. I won't mention which stereotype, but trust me this guy is it. He is this strange mash up of everything he is supposed to be according to bad movies and pop culture. It doesn't seem right seeing it all shoved together. It is awkward and mildly embarrassing to see. Plus he has this weird posture which brings to mind an opossum on it's hind legs, and this hideous goonish laugh. Of course , he is outgoing, chatting and gabbing at everyone who is within five feet, which makes him almost unavoidable. Basically this guy is a whirlwind of social terror. I see it in the eyes of anyone the starts to interact with, wild escapist looks. But thats not even the worst part, the real problem here is he may be nice. I can't tell. Everything about this goon fills me with loathing, but it all happened with in the first 3 seconds of his presence, so he didn't really get a fair shake. What if he is a goddamn saint under...

I'm next to an older gentleman. He has ruffled white Mark Twain hair, a faded red shirt, and jeans. He is flying through a crossword puzzle. Hunched over his chair, his bulky slightly gone to fat frame is wonderfully symmetrical. His stance is important not just for its aesthetic appeal, but because of his beard. His beard, of course, is also white and is touching his crossword. While his hunchedeness is facilitating that, it still is a long beard. It isn't long enough that I'm going to call the local media outlets, but it sparks my interest. From my own beard growing experiments I can say this is at least a two year beard, plus because this beard is white, I feel like it is older. Please ignore the flaws in logic here, I am. It is possible this person hasn't seen his face sans beard for decades. What if this was his first beard? What if he grew it after his first wife died? What if he was in a biker gang? What if he is a war criminal hiding behind whiskers? ...

I'm next to these women. They are in line in front of me. They have nice if uninspired clothes. Nice material, well washed, not worn, somber tones and patterns. They are talking about startlingly stereotypical things: shopping, husbands, tiny dogs. One of them bumps into me, which is my fault because I'm standing too close to them so I can eavesdrop. Regardless of my looming being the real reason this woman knocked into me, she spends at least a minute apologizing. I do likewise, then immediately go back to spying on them. Maybe three minutes pass when a group of their friends, 5 or 6 other similar ladies, walk in and the Over Apologizer immediately calls them up to the front of the line. All of these ladies barge through the line without so much as a polite wave. This, in case you were never in third grade, is cutting. A few of the other people in line mutter, and give them nasty looks, but it just bounces off this newly swollen gaggle of women. When they reach th...

I'm next to this person, in an auditory sense. In fact I've been next to this person every morning this week, in an auditory sense. I haven't been sleeping well lately, and since I am a self scheduled soul I've been waking up in the late morning. Specifically at 11, this specificity is because of the person I'm next to, in an auditory sense. I don't know what he or she looks like, but I know at 11 am every morning the past 2 months he or she has been seated behind a a drum kit. He or she (It?) bangs on their alarm clocks with such routine that my eyes opened at 11:03 every morning the past two weeks. I'm not complaining mind you, 11 is an eminently reasonable hour to be loud. In fact it's been kind of nice. It's getting nicer too. I'm no expert, but I think Anon-o-Drummer is improving rapidly, or I'm getting better at listening to muffled drums. Either way I now can tell the difference between different songs, when before it was just...

I'm next to that turtle again. He is still a turtle. More later.