People I'm Next To

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I'm next to this kid. This fucking kid. He is this little brown haired freckled thing, glasses to big for his face, shirt to big for his whole class to fit into. Classic kid apparel. You'll grow into the world kiddo. Currently there is only one thing he has outgrown: a philosophy of goodwill. This kid is playing with some other little kids. He is in charge of what sounds like an intricate game of doctor. Not the kind that is about discovering their no no parts, but good clean, clothes on, this person is broken lets fix them with science fun. Their patient is an imaginary man who is supposed to be laying in front of them having some work done on his heart. Little head surgeon calls the patient to be gassed and starts talking about the upcoming procedure with his fellow fake doctors. He explains to them that the main thing of importance with this surgery is that the patient survives to pay them. "This is a lot of money we are talking about here," he says as h

I’m next to these people. I can’t see them, but I can hear them. Well sort of. As per usual, I am bending all of my will towards eavesdropping, but today even my tried and true ear drums are failing me somewhat. There are these perfectly frustrating walls between us, thin enough to permit some muffled sound, but not clear words, and of course, you know, still walls so I can’t see through. There are maybe 3 voices I can hear, and while I can’t hear words, I can understand their tone. I also understand that I they know they can be overheard through the walls; nonetheless they are angry volcano people, erupting in a gentle tirade. Not gentle in feeling, just in volume. They reverberate softly with wrath. Their whispered indignation flooding the space in muted unclear mumbles, expressing their aggression, but respectfully quiet enough to hide the specifics of words. There is this inverse relationship between how mad a subject makes them and how loud they permit themselves to be

I'm next to this woman. She is a mother, and pretty much looks like one too. She is just over 5 feet and isn't a huge lady, but is gently rotund. This isn't just me being polite, it is really the best way to describe her body mass. She has on a sweatshirt with what is presumably a school mascot on it. It is a cartoon bird, a raptor of some variety, who has broad unbird-like shoulders, wings curled into clenched fists, and looks for all the world like he is going to jump off her shirt and snap my neck. I've always wondered about upset looking mascots. Are they angry because their team doesn't win much? Or maybe it is this aviary rage that fuels the school's march to victory. In this I'll just assume her kid must go to Berserk Falcon Elementary or something. Her shirt is a digression, her kid is the point. She is telling a story about her kid. Her kid is wonderful, or at least has done something wonderful. To me that is, not to her. Apparently her

I'm next to this old guy. He is peeking at me from a doorway, I can see the left half of him and only for about 20 seconds. My brief view of him provides me with the following details. He has a faded flannel shirt under a red cardigan, high khaki slacks and grey neatly combed hair. He is leaning in the door looking at me, looking at me and weighing me; and I am sorry to say he has found me lacking. I should mention a few details about myself here, number one: I am peeing. Peeing appropriately mind you, in a public restroom, in one of those aptly named devices, a urinal. To my right is a stall, an empty stall and it is here the true disdain the old man has for me becomes apparent. I feel his gaze on my back like in a grocery store romance novel, a bodice ripper. I turn, my eyes meet his, his hand clenches around the door frame, mine remains where it is, directing the flow of my urine politely down the drain. His eyes walk up and down me, he takes in every part of me in a few s

I'm next to this guy. He is pretty wild looking, white blown back hair, big white mustache, black and yellow windbreaker track suit, and a reed thin body. He looks like Mark Twain in a power walking bumble bee costume. Oh, and he has a whistle on, like a gym teacher or a high school track coach. I'm gonna go with gym teacher, since he is by a group of 2nd or 3rd graders. We are in this gymnasium and he is standing by a group of kids who are learning about the food groups. There is another adult there managing the herd of kids as they wrap their little kid brains around balancing meals. Actually the kids are doing pretty well, and everyone is having fun and learning. Yay! Then Bumble Bee Mark Twain decides it is time for a clever quip. "Fruit group, ha, thats the group I'd put Mr. Smith in. Right?," he looks at the other volunteer slyly, who in turn looks embarrassed at the brief bout of homophobia and looks downwards. Undeterred our heroic little Bee nu

I'm next to this girl. She has a red hoodie on under a tan jacket, jean and white sneakers. Her hair is dirty blond. I always feel weird about that color designation. It sounds mean, but I don't have a better color for it. She is sitting next to a group of people arguing about the grammies. At first she is silent. Her friends are not fans of Lady Gaga. They are upset about an egg, and a song that sounds like another song. I didn't, don't watch the grammies so I am confused, but like I am listening to an inside joke, so I understand why I am confused. Red Hoodie catches my eye as someone else on the outside. She is listening to the conversation with a dead stare in her eye. My initial thought is its the glaze of apathy, and that she is waiting for the conversation to switch to something she cares about. But as it turns out thats just the face she makes when her brain is working. That 9 pound idea factory is getting ready to turn out a doozie. There is an alm

I'm next to this girl. She has a red hoodie on under a tan jacket, jean and white sneakers. Her hair is dirty blond. I always feel weird about that color designation. It sounds mean, but I don't have a better color for it. She is sitting next to a group of people arguing about the grammies. At first she is silent. Her friends are not fans of Lady Gaga. They are upset about an egg, and a song that sounds like another song. I didn't, don't watch the grammies so I am confused, but like I am listening to an inside joke, so I understand why I am confused. Red Hoodie catches my eye as someone else on the outside. She is listening to the conversation with a dead stare in her eye. My initial thought is its the glaze of apathy, and that she is waiting for the conversation to switch to something she cares about. But as it turns out thats just the face she makes when her brain is working. That 9 pound idea factory is getting ready to turn out a doozie. There is an alm

I'm next to this guy. He has on a red flannel shirt, a slouchy winter hat, jeans, and big thick framed glasses. He is loudly discussing a band with a group of people. I don't think he is projecting on purpose, I think he just has a loud voice. Maybe he has a hearing problem. Maybe his mom had a hearing problem and he grew up having to strain to have her hear him. Maybe he has had a chronic throat disease his whole life, but recently had a successful operation and hasn't learned how to use his inside voice yet. Whatever the reason, he gains my attention through his volume. He keeps my attention by pulling his glasses off in a strange fashion. He places his fingers through his right lens. It takes me a moment to realize this guy doesn't have lenses in the frames. They are a fashion accessory. I want to step past the sheer immediate silliness of this. I'm sure plenty of fashion statements seemed ridiculous at first, before becoming common place. Here's t

I'm next to these two Men. I can tell they are Men, with capitals because one is a security guard, and one has a load of sports paraphernalia draped across his person. He is like a billboard for physical activity, with ironically round edges. By this I mean he is a little chubby, they both are. Also they both have military style buzz cuts. The security guard is at work, and his friend is keeping him company, I am walking past them when their conversation sparks my interest. I pretend to tie my shoe to get a quick listen. "...and you know what she said to me? She said," The security guard pauses, and places and outraged hand on his chest, "She said I have some growing up to do. Can you believe that?" "She did not!," replies the outraged chubby sports fan. He gasps, before and after. "She did! Me! I mean I have a job, I have my army stuff, I have responsibilities. You know what I think." "I think I do," the sports fan chimes

I'm next to this girl. She has a cute Sherpa hat on, a blue fluffy coat, a red skirt, darker green tights and yellow boots. Its all very primary. She is 5 foot 6, and weighs 148 pounds, I know this to be true, for reasons which will become apparent later. We are in a coffee shop and more specifically she is in a corner, facing the wall. She is on the phone with a doctor and it appears this call is urgent, because even though she doesn't want to be on it. She keeps trying to whisper, but then having to repeat herself in a louder voice. So she keeps saying these quiet unintelligible sentences, followed by a louder clear sentences, they are like reverse echoes. She is whispering, because this conversation has something to do with her lady parts. At first she is answering very basic questions, height, weight, eating habits. She is allergic to mango, it gives her a rash. She takes a daily multi-vitamin, and exercises 2 times a week. Then it gets more specific, and presumably

I'm next to Jeremy. Today, Jeremy is wearing a smart collared shirt with black and blue stripes on a white background, or maybe black and white stripes on a blue background or maybe blue and white stripes on a black background, and black pants, which are pretty much just black pants. His head is shaved, which oddly disguises the fact that his head can't grow hair. He is bald on purpose, and by accident. I know he is Jeremy because he ran into a friend, who said, "Hey Jeremy." I also know he is one of those modern day future techno wizard people who live in coffee shops, like me. He has an I-pad which is in a special stand, and he is browsing the internet with casual touches, swimming through data streams without a care in the world. He is looking at a cooking web page, some chicken dish, I'm not close enough for more details about the ingredients, when his phone signals him. I'm not sure how it signals him as I don't hear it, it could have psychica

I'm next to this man. He has a silver Ted Danson haircut, and a thicker Ted Danson face. He is dressed like a woman casually lounging in her house on a rainy day in a mid nineties romantic comedy. By this I mean, tight black jeans and a loose turtle neck sweater that goes down to his knees with a design like brown static. We are in line at a Chinese place. He cut me in that line. Wait. I take that back, he actually interrupted me ordering. I was at the counter saying, "Umm I'd like-" Then this guy steps in front of me. "I'll have a spring roll." The mother fucker. He actually hyphenated my sentence with his immediate need for a cruelty free eggroll. There is a simple etiquette to waiting in a line. Wait in line. Thats it, thats all you have to do. It is easy. Ignoring such obvious niceties, he spits out his order and without even waiting for the cashier to take the order he walks and sits down at a booth. The cashier rolls his eyes and th

I'm next to this woman. She is in her late twenties, mildly overweight, and has on a black sweater and jeans. She has a frazzled, angry look about her, like someone in the middle of a crisis. This makes sense as she is in the middle of a divorce. She is also in the middle of a conversation about her divorce. She is also, inconveniently, in the middle of a coffee shop. Everyone in said coffee shop can hear her, as she is practically shouting into her phone. Her voice is this shrill wild thing, it has the tone I imagine inquisitors used when ranting about heretics, right before they burned off the soles of someones feet. It makes me feel like I am being yelled at, and his isn't just me feeling this, the other patrons are cringing in something like fear whenever her voice crashes in furious crescendo of anger about who gets the broiler. In fact most of her complaints are about appliances, sprinkled with milder concerns about less important stuff, you know like her kids. &

I'm next to this sound effect. It, presumably he, has on red converse chucks, which are startlingly similar to my own shoes, white socks and blue jeans. This is all I can see because he is in the stall next to me. He is puking, and I can hear it. It is extremely loud. I am timidly sitting down in a public bathroom. Normally I stay away from being in this situation, not out of a fear of germs, but rather some strange near crippling social phobia of what people might think about the fact that I have to move my bowels from time to time. Tonight however my fear of moving my bowels in my pants has trumped that other fear, and so here I am, pooping in public. The person next to me is operating under similar biological urgency, but with a different ejection method. I hear a pretty stereotypical puke noise, followed by a pretty stereotypical splash noise. This repeats every few seconds for a minute. I lose count of the cycles, as I sit paralyzed with the bizarre narcissistic fear t

I'm next to this woman. She has loose dark brown v-neck t-shirt on. There are lots of single letter designations in shirts, or at least more than other clothes. Anyway, its jersey I think from the way it lays. It is plain. She has on jeans, faded, but in one of the 8 different patterns of prefaded, and very tight so I think they are new. She has warm looking brown boots with buckles by the ankle. I like those. She has seen a movie recently, she wasn't impressed. She has explained why, I'm not impressed. First off, she points out, it was a strange movie. I can tell from the way she says 'strange' that this is going to be a poor review. The word kind of catches as she is halfway through trying to spit it out, like it suddenly had to start going uphill, it becomes a ten letter word, "Strannggge." She goes on to explain that it was complicated, and that this is the main problem. "I would rather not have to think about it, I mean I'm going

I'm next to this man and woman. Both are wearing dark, comfortable looking cloths. She has on black tights and a large black sweat shirt. He has on dark grey sweat pants and a black fleece zip up turtle neck. We three are in a coffee shop. I am at a table maybe 5 feet away from them and they are on a couch, and each other. There are a lot other folks here too, watching too. All of us are an audience, these two are the show. They are not currently having sex, but I'd be only mildly surprised if they started. They are exhibiting a wild amount of public affection. They aren't just doing the whole making out, necking, hands in fun places, thing. I mean they are, but its not like seeing a drunk couple go at it in a dimly lit bar, all hormones and impaired judgement. There you see a desperation, two people who absolutely have to be doing what they are doing;'Excuse me miss but my hand has to be on your breast right now despite our public situation, its urgent',