People I'm Next To

I'm next to this guy. He is pointlessly pontificating in a faded black t shirt, brown cargo pants. He has terrible hair, it has been hacked at some recent point, hacked I say, at least it matches his patchy beard which looks less like facial hair and more like spiny bristles to ward away predators, the perfect defense mechanism. Not that he needs it, his voice is enough to keep the bravest at bay. He is using it now. He says things like, 'I have a chronic inability to be precise, generally,' or, 'Hymns really bore me, I mean they are never sung as intended.' I can't tell what would annoy me more; if he was really expressing sincere thoughts, or simply pretending to have opinions of things that no one has opinions on. Hymns? Really man? Its been a long three centuries since anyone has had a single opinion on hymns. He gestures as he talks, grand academic hand signs that signal to you how cultured the possessor of such hands must be. How grand, how info

I'm next to this guy. He has mid nineties rock star hair, Rossdale not Kiedas, a red t-shirt, and a scruffy beard. He is focused on his laptop. Really focused. He looks pretty intense, brooding eyes, pursed lips, I'm almost convinced he is faking it. Except of course for the sweat. I thought he spilled something on himself at first. This was a flawed theory, unless he spilled it under both arms and in his hair. There are these large dark splotches under his arm and down through the middle of his chest. He is not sweating a lot, he is sweating too much. He is changing the barometric pressure in the room, affecting weather patterns, he is like a walking tidal wave. Surprisingly his lips are cracked and dry. Perhaps his abnormal sweating is dehydrating him, like some weird Greek myth, surrounded by the fluid he needs while he dries out. Persperitus the Dessicated. I wonder if its glandular. I wonder if he has to change his clothes more than once a day. I wonder if

I'm next to this guy. He is leaning over some complicated looking math, wearing a green hoodie and a light blue t-shirt. He has a wrist watch that matches the shirt exactly. I wonder if this was on purpose. He has a red and black beanie on with a few stray red curls peeking out from the front. Next to him is a laptop, some coffee and a folder. This folder is the culprit of our tale,a sneaky preaching paper holder. It is decorated with a busy star pattern, blue whites and browns. It is a pretty pattern, very modern, very back to school. It also is trying to spread the good word. Only marginally hidden amongst the stars is a cross. Not just a cross, but an unused crucifix, solidly planted on what I can only imagine to be the hill of Golgotha. Next to this grisly new testament scene are the words, "'I am the way, the truth, and the Life,' Jesus." When one of his friends comments,"I didn't know you were religious Will." The guy, Will apparently,

I'm next to this mad scientist. Well, I am unsure as to his actual job, but I feel like his professional paths are extremely limited by his appearance. His hair has receded about halfway across his scalp. In response the rest of his hair is shaggy and has decided to grow straight out in every direction. I believe the technical term for this is a shock of hair. Oh yeah its white, not dirty yellow white, or sprinkled with grey, but brilliant I just talked with a deity in a burning bush white. His eyebrows follow a similar pattern of madness, giant white things that dominate his lengthy forehead. The rest of his face is a mass of bemused wrinkles with a giant nose thrusting out of them. He has on green corduroy pants, a wrinkly striped shirt, and a vest with a million pockets. No doubt filled with hand held lasers, unfolding robots, and enough the unstable Element X to destroy entire block. He is reading the paper. I can only imagine he is scanning the pages for news of his

I'm next to these old ladies. A whole flock of them. They are fluttering in the thrift store line, surrounding me in a whirl of short choppy haircuts and full shopping carts. Two of them shoo me ahead in line since I only have one item. I try to resist, but they insist. I make a show of breaking down, and use the free pass to cut in front. Honestly, I don't really want to wait behind them, I mispoke when I said they all have full carts, in truth they are overflowing, exploding with what can only be called old lady stuff. The two still in front of me have wicker baskets, fake flowers and bright knit sweaters. One behind me has a massive amount of stuffed animals stuffed into her cart. The other has a few vases, a clear rain coat, and a couple of, no joke, bags of hard candy. It's a fucking thrift store, where did those even come from? I still have to wait for the first two, so I am sandwiched between them for a little bit. This usually would be a problem, lucky fo

I'm next to this guy. He is fidgety. He has greasy brown hair, and a patchy beard. He is wearing a blue shirt, and khaki cargo pants. We are both in line at the bank. He keeps leaning on one foot, and then the other. Almost hopping back and forth. He is holding his wallet in his hand, his fingers keep rubbing it. He is a fly person, a grubby creepy fly person. He is staring at me. Well, he keeps staring at me then looking away. Under the cover of his limp shaggy hair his eyes keep finding their way back to me. A few times our eyes meet, and his mouth starts to say something. He stops though, thankfully. This happens three times. I know what is happening, he thinks he knows me but is not sure. Sure, there is a chance I have met Fly Man before, but even if I have I certainly don't want to talk to him, that sounds terrible. I don't want to talk to normal not insect people, but he keeps looking at me. Then he does it, he says hello. I nod and look at my deposit sl

I'm next to these people. There is a guy over there, a girl over there, a different there, and yet another girl in yet another there. They are all sitting at their computers, working. They are dressed like regular people, they have regular people faces, they seem regular. They might be hiding all sorts of weird things, like huge stamp collections, or birth marks shaped like their zodiac sign. One of them might have been a twin who killed his twin in the womb. That girl might have had a vestigial tail removed at birth, I can't tell she is sitting down, and I don't have a copy of her medical records in front of me. Sadly, none of them are showing off their probable weirdnesses. I guess thats okay. I know they are there. Hiding. Waiting. Collecting stamps. I mean like a huge stamp collection.

I'm next to this girl. She has straight blond hair, and a leather jacket on. The jacket is one of those jackets that looked cool on someone somewhere. This girl must have seen that someone somewhere and thought, 'I would like to look as cool as this person, I'll get that jacket too.' Her plan is not working. I guess that's mean, but I claim a bit of meanness because she is creeping me out. She is a stranger to me, and that means I am a stranger to her. This anonymity hasn't impacted our personal geographies as much as I think it should. She is touching me. Not in some offhanded friendly manner, but in this bizarre constant manner. She has placed one hand on the back of my shoulder, and one hand on the front of my shoulder and is rubbing me in quick short strokes. Really quick, like creating heat the from friction quick. Why is she doing this? Is it a seduction? If so, her plan is not working. Is she trying to erode me? If so, her plan may be workin

I'm next to this guy. He has a baggy grey sweatshirt on, with a brightly colored t-shirt peeking out from the collar. It draws the eye to his neck, but once your eye is there you realize there isn't anything else to see. So I'm disappointed as I take in the rest of him. Which may be why I find this guy so unimpressive. Of course it may just be him being unimpressive. He has goatee, which does a poor job of masking a weak chin, a large reddish nose, and these squinted eyes that look like they are tearing up. He is sitting behind the counter at the gas station. In front of him is a box of brownies. These brownies are strange things, a bizarre point of advertisement. They are labeled 'Relaxation Brownies,' and their slogan makes the claim, 'The only brownies specifically designed to calm you down.' The logo is a brownie with arms and legs lounging on a green divan. I suppose this green square where we find the brownie is laying on might be any other fo

I'm next to these two people. One is has a green t-shirt on and is slumped into a chair, with a very smug expression on. This is the right one. The other has a white t-shirt on, and is sitting on the edge of the seat, with a frustrated look on. This is the wrong one. They are playing Trivial Pursuit. You can probably guess who is winning. "Uh glycerin?," the wrong one says. "You are wrong," the right one says. They aren't playing Trivia by the rules. I get the feeling they played a very brief, very predictable game. Now they are just reading the cards to each other. I feel like more people probably play Trivial Pursuit like this. I would be unsurprised to see a lot of people surprised that there is a connection between pie and Trivia. I have always wanted to play with real pie pieces, the winner gets a full pie, the losers get half a pie. Everyone wins. "Spiro Agnew," the right one says. "You are right," the wrong one says. I w

I'm next to this guy. He has on a green sweater with thin yellow and blue horizontal stripes. Under this he has a light blue collared shirt. He has jeans and red chucks on. He is starting at his computer screen, and typing, typing, typing. Trailing from his laptop to his ears are small white headphones. He would have you believe he is using them to listen to music, but he isn't. He is using them to lie to everyone here. I have been watching him. He bobs his head in time to the music playing over the speakers. He chuckles at the jokes people tell at the table next to him. He picks up his phone when it lightly rings. I have my suspicions that in fact, there is nothing playing in his head phones. So I make the excuse to get up and plug my computer in near him. I excuse myself and lean over towards the plug, and fiddle with it for a second. I keep my head near his. Just as I thought, nothing coming from those headphones. I am a much better spy than him.