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...