Category Archives: Non-fiction

Non-fiction

Unique Observations

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I saw a black t-shirt this morning with a message in old English font that said, Assholes Live Forever. Where did she buy that shirt? And is it true? The assholes do live long if you were to ask me.

I sit in torment over tomorrow. Work will start again, and I still haven’t heard from the doctor about my hand. I have to keep calling him until he sets an appointment. My job is making me work on commission. They pay me only fifty-five percent of my salary once a month, and then the total of my salary plus the commission is on the next payslip. It’s not enough to get by.

My right leg still itches with some sort of sore on my calf. I hope it isn’t from a bed bug. The last thing I need is another infestation. I’ve been through that hell enough times already and now isn’t the right time. The right time is never.

But anyway, I’m facing a wall right now and can see the rest of the shop through the glass reflection of a picture frame. My head is full of residue. I don’t feel motivated and haven’t felt motivated for quite some weeks. I’ll have to practice patience until the motivation sparks. I vegetated all of yesterday, but today I’ll get exercise. I was using the elliptical machine the other day along with the stair stepper for almost an hour. I burned a lot of calories, and I counted them with my watch. It’s the only way to know if I’ve made any progress. I don’t feel like going to the gym after I’ve just joined, but maybe my motivation will change.

There’s a woman wearing a cowboy hat high on top of her head, with most of her blonde hair showing on top. And then she left with her man.

It’s cold in here. I wish they would turn down the AC. They always turn this place into a freezer. I’m the only one here. There are people sitting outside on the patio, but I don’t want to be near those folks. I’m doing just fine where I am.

Someone posted on my blog yesterday that I should subscribe to theirs. I didn’t, and I didn’t understand why they would post such a comment. It was something I didn’t approve of either. I’m not subscribing to someone’s blog just because of what they told me to do. As it were, they didn’t subscribe to mine, so I didn’t see the point.

I’m lost for words. It wasn’t this difficult a month ago. Now writer’s block has put me in handcuffs. I belong to a Facebook group about writers helping other writers. It’s mostly bitter people bashing other bitter people about their writing. But once in a while, someone will post that they’re a new writer who’s facing writer’s block. They can’t think of any new ideas, so they’re seeking advice from someone who might know the answers. The answer is that it’s everyone’s plight. No one is immune to this illness. We get trapped in it because of life’s difficulties. And that’s my answer: that everyone has to deal with the same shit no matter how experienced they are. It’s about continuing writing, even if it’s bullshit. In some ways, that’s the beauty if that’s the way you’re looking. But so many of us stop where we are and wait for our thoughts to come rather than keep our hands moving with time. And then the thoughts emerge as best as they can. I often stop where I am but that’s not good. Anyway, what’s the use? This will go down as another wasted post in a long line of others. I sit and wonder why I’m doing this.

Non-fiction

Little League

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He called me to the mound. I’d never pitched. I was nervous going up there for the first time, being in the center of the spotlight, when I threw pitches for practice before the batter came up to the plate. And when he did, there was a new confidence. My only mission was to strike him out. Then one… two… three pitches later, I sent him to the dugout. And then they called the next batter. One… two… three. I sent him to the dugout too. Up came the third batter with two outs. On the first pitch, the ball sailed from my hand to the right, and just like that, the ball struck him in the face. It was a fastball that had gotten away, and the batter fell to the dirt. He curled up and started crying. I felt like a murderer, an evil seed for hitting him that way, all because of an innocent pitch. People in the stands, mostly parents, started yelling:

“Get him out.”

“He hit my kid.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

But the coach kept me in.

“I really like your talent,” he said. “I want to keep you as the starting pitcher.”

So I was the starting pitcher for the Mt. Lebanon Giants. The season continued. I pitched in just about every game and struck out batters every inning. I never hit another boy. The coach loved to call me Benny. No other person did.

And then, when I was ten years old, my father moved me to Florida, Clearwater to be exact. The boys down there weren’t so nice. They treated me like I was nothing. I continued playing Little League, but the coach didn’t stick me in as the pitcher. Instead, he played his kid, who was awful. Sometimes I had to watch him from the dugout. Most times I had to watch him from right field, the worst position in baseball, where they stuck the scrubs. I knew I was better than that kid, but my father didn’t coach the team.

My parents didn’t appreciate how I was treated, so they sent me to a pitching camp in Orlando. I had to stay there for two weeks with others. We all shared the same room, to sleep in bunk beds. And they made us pitch from a regular mound on a regular diamond. I skipped a lot of balls to the catcher. My arm from that far couldn’t throw. My fastballs were limited.

On one of those days, I threw out my arm. My shoulder started hurting.

“What’s wrong with you?” one of the coaches there asked.

And I said, “I think I threw out my arm.”

“We’ll get you an ice pack to cool it down.”

But the ice pack didn’t work. My arm was still thrown out. I spent the rest of pitching camp with a hurt arm and couldn’t throw. The boys there would hurt me more with their teasing. The coaches weren’t so nice either. I missed home and wanted to go back, so I called my mother to pick me up. She drove several hours to Orlando from Clearwater and took me back after just a week. I told her what they made me do.

“That’s just ridiculous,” she said.

My arm still hurt, but it didn’t keep me from playing in Little League. The coach still played his son as the pitcher, and I still stood in right field. I had to ask the coach to put me in instead of him watching me at practice.

So one game, when his son was walking batters and giving up runs, he called me in from the outfield to begin practicing on the mound. The kids from the other dugout started laughing at my form. It was embarrassing. I didn’t want to be on the mound anymore despite my advanced skills. My parents were in the stands as the boys kept laughing. The first batter came up and I walked him after four straight pitches. But I struck out the next, and my confidence returned. The boys stopped laughing. I struck out the rest of the batters that inning and the coach chose me over his son for the next game. His son hated me for that reason. I never liked him anyway.

My pitching wasn’t as good after I threw my arm out at camp, so I walked a lot of batters and gave up hits and didn’t strike out as many. I watched my skills decline and worried if that could be it for my career.

I used to daydream in class about being the star pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates and striking out the side in every inning. But that dream came to a halt when my father made us move, this time to California, where they signed me up for Little League again. It was the same old situation. I was on a team where the coach started his son over me. The coach never even considered putting me on the mound. What a disgrace. I had to stand in right field just like before. I wanted to give up Little League and focus on a more individual sport like tennis, where there was less nepotism. But the coach stuck me in on the last game of the season to my surprise, and my skills came back. I struck out more batters than his son, and after the game, he said, “I should’ve put you on the mound more often.”

But it was too late. The season was over, and I would move on to high school that same year. I wasn’t about to try out for the team. I believed politics had taken over baseball, so I stuck with tennis instead. My father was disappointed, but it didn’t matter. I’d had too many negative experiences to continue with baseball, and to this day I don’t regret my decision.

Non-fiction

Why Bother?

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I had a nightmare where a snake was chasing me down the street. It had legs from what I can remember. I awoke around 1:30 and couldn’t go back to sleep. All I thought about was the snake and my job. They correlate. So now I can’t focus on what’s in front. I wander like a zombie and feel like one too.

I applied for another position yesterday but doubted I was qualified. These companies want experience, yet they’re not willing to train. How is anyone going to learn anything when all they’re looking for is someone who has learned already? Where does one start when beginning a new job? This is the worst that life has to offer: searching for a job. I wish it was over, but I have no choice. I’m not making enough money to live. You would think full-time employment these days would support anyone but such isn’t the case. They wave their flag of diversity yet pay someone scraps. It doesn’t make much sense. These job sites offer nothing but positions in which I have experience, but I don’t want that experience any longer.

I’m going back to work today after taking three days off because of my left hand and how I can barely pull my cell phone out of my pocket. That’s how they expect me to work. The doctor still hasn’t called me back to set an appointment. I have a feeling he won’t. Maybe it’s because of the possibility of worker’s comp, and he wouldn’t want to get involved. I don’t know. It’s just a guess. I could be negative, and he will call to set one up.

All I do know is this isn’t the way I can function. They’ve dumped a bunch of work on me after I was gone for three days. It isn’t right because other employees had been off for about a week, and everyone had to work their cases. Yet I took a few days off because of a medical emergency, and my cases were untouched. The amount of work has grown and left me buried. Where’s the sense in that?

And then there’s the pay, which makes the least sense of all. They promised me a certain salary but I saw from the last two paychecks that I was being paid significantly lower than before. Now it’s below living standards. Call me cynical, but I don’t subscribe to people’s words when they say that I have to find my calling, or that I need to go soul-searching. I can look for those things for the rest of my life and still come up short. Why, I’ve been doing that already for many years and have never come close to finding any semblance of a soul, and I can look for my calling all I want but may never find it for the rest of my life when all that’s left is a job that overworks and underpays. I thought I was getting a promotion, but not even close.

Non-fiction

Fatigue

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I awakened to another summer morning, not motivated to do much at all. The doctor still hasn’t called to set up an appointment. My hand is still going numb. But at least I’m taking another day off from work.

I slept in and pulled myself out of bed. It was a struggle to leave the apartment. Just imagine having to do my job.

I drove to the gym yesterday and signed up. The salesperson, I’ll refer to him as, showed me around the facility like I knew he would. I just wanted to be in and out, sign up and leave, but the salesperson had to do his job and walk me through every corner of the place as if one had never been seen. But I was patient, polite, inquisitive. I saw the fitness room, where they do Zumba classes, the fitness band room, the cycling room with a disco ball, the weight room, the personal trainer room, and lastly the cardio room, where I believe I would spend most of my time.

And then he led me back to his desk where I knew what was to come: not just me signing up for the gym but him trying to upsell me to a personal trainer, which I wasn’t interested in at all. He was eager to offer me a machine that would measure my body fat and levels of nutrition: too much information. I was better off ignorant. But he insisted that I try it out. There were three membership levels: the basic, in which I would use the equipment at that gym only for ten dollars a month, the fit, where I would get to use the equipment at multiple gyms and set up lessons with a personal trainer, and then the max, which would offer all of those things plus access to that nutrition/body fat machine, which I didn’t need. I chose the fit level because I just wanted to use the equipment at multiple locations. But he kept trying to upsell me to the max fit which I knew he would do. I saw it all coming.

“What are your fitness goals?” he asked.

I didn’t see that question coming. It made me uncomfortable. Did I really want to expose my insecurities to that kid? I gave him the vaguest answer. “I would like to get in shape.”

After the tenth time I said no to a personal trainer, he made that move where he called over his manager who so happened to be working at the next desk. A guy named Buddy. What does that tell you? He was big, and not with muscles, and covered in tattoos. One of the tattoos said I Want to Kill You on his forearm. And he spoke so fast that I couldn’t keep up. It was a tactic for me to say yes. Every time I said no, Buddy would offer to lessen the cost of the program. I would’ve had to pay $144 biweekly for four weeks with a personal trainer. I kept having to say no. Buddy kept going a fourth and fifth time. I knew what to expect. Right now I’m just not committed, I kept saying. And finally he surrendered, and I won.

I just can’t see myself with a personal trainer. I have enough commitments already. The reality is I don’t need someone telling me what I should or shouldn’t eat: no healhy fats, lean fats, supplements such as creatine, et cetera. Maybe someday, but I’m not ready to buy all that crap at the store. I left the gym, and maybe I’ll go today if I feel motivated.

Non-fiction

Juxtaposed in Daylight

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Everywhere I go, I see them texting. Anger follows. People pissed off at everything, and it shows, and they aren’t to blame.

Yesterday, I paid my speeding ticket online. Over four hundred dollars that included a fee for an online school. I don’t know when traffic school will start. I’m supposed to call a number for school. It will be on the internet, and it will have comedy, that which won’t be funny. But that’s okay.

I can feel my hand again, but the doctor hasn’t called to make an appointment. I’m beginning to think he won’t because of the possibility of worker’s comp. He would rather not deal with the headache. I’ve experienced enough to know, like my therapist who won’t accept my insurance, and so I pay her full price. It sucks to lose, but at least I’ve taken the day off from work. That’s a victory, like yesterday, which was a day off too. My stress isn’t as high as usual. Go figure. I can walk around with less of a bother. Although today it will be hot. It’s hot already, and it’s not even eight in the morning. I’m waiting for the weather to cool down, which won’t be for another month.

My next work deposit better be significantly higher than the previous, or I won’t know what I will do. And what will I do if I come back and see all of the work piled up because no one has taken off the load? I would be extremely upset, but I’m not free of doubt.

The month is almost over. One more week before September, and I’ll be glad because it has been a hell of a month.

I wallow in boredom because in boredom I’m consumed. I’ve heard that boredom is for boring people, so that’s how it is. I waste away my time and hear that time is meant to be wasted. Evidence shows little in regard to nothing. What should I do? I’ll call the doctor and see what’s the problem. Do I have to search for another? What other can I find?

I stare into space and look for words. I’ve run out of ideas, stuck in a cloud.

I took an assessment last night for a new job, and I believe I failed because the exam was multiple choice, and the answers were too similar. They had to do with sales of water. I didn’t know sales would be that in-depth. I just thought I would test water, but it appears that water has to be sold. They just call it water tester to attract more applicants. I can’t see myself selling water, but it has to be a better job than the one I have now. They might actually train me rather than hand me a bunch of documents to read and expect me to know the material right away. I was untrained and set up for failure. That’s important to know. I’ll just sit in this chair and watch it unfold.

Non-fiction

A Night in the ER

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I lost control of my left hand as I was typing at work. It fell to pieces, and I couldn’t type with it anymore, and I could barely grip a cup of coffee. My hand went as crooked as a tree, and it stayed that way. So after work, I hurried on foot to urgent care to have it looked at.

The waiting room was as crowded as a bar at six o’clock at night. They were closing at eight. I was lucky to find a chair, and I had to fill out one of those daunting medical forms, which asked me about my family history of health of course. I had to draw a checkmark next to stroke, which my grandfather had in his late age. It was something I worried about as my hand was still numb.

When I waited, I googled hand numbness and came up with possibilities such as a mini-stroke, the worst possible scenario. All I could do was wait with a lot of people ahead of me. One of them was a woman with a suitcase. I always wonder about people who bring suitcases to urgent care. She kept asking the receptionists when they would call her name. Then a woman stormed in, bawling, and went straight to the receptionists. She could barely speak because she was dry-heaving and said she needed to see someone right away because she thought she was having a panic attack. They let her in before all of us, and I could keep hearing her bawling, even in the doctor’s office. I figured they would close at eight and tell me to come back tomorrow, but I was lucky because the nurse called me in at about a quarter till.

I sat in the examination room. The nurse checked my vital signs. Everything looked good. I waited some more afterward before the doctor came in: an old man with a plaid dress shirt. “What seems to be the problem” is what every doctor asks. I told him I couldn’t feel my left hand. He asked me if it hurt as he was rubbing it. I told him no.

He rubbed his finger up my left hand. “Can you feel this?”

I told him yes.

“I’m worried it might be ITA,” he said.

A mini-stroke, in other words.

“I suggest you go to emergency.”

All I could think about was waiting longer. I would’ve rather gone home and suffered more than wait another several hours to see a goddamned doctor. I took his suggestion and rode a Lyft to the nearest hospital. The Lyft took all night it seemed to pick me up from urgent care.

When I got to the hospital, there were several people sitting outside in the pickup area. I went right inside to the receptionist. He was a bald man with tattoos and yellow fingernails. I handed him the sheet that the doctor from urgent care had given me, explaining the sudden loss of feeling in my left hand (which I’m experiencing right now). I can’t believe that I’m typing this, to be perfectly honest. I filled out the form and handed it back to the same receptionist.

“Have a seat,” he said.

I was lucky again to find one in the waiting room, where lots of people sat and waited with their babies. I always see babies and little kids in waiting rooms for some reason. I worried I would catch COVID being in the ER without a face mask on–not that face masks would ensure protection. I waited and waited for about two and a half hours. A young man came back out to the waiting room with bandages on both hands. My first suspicion was that he’d slit his wrists. He looked quite annoyed for being there, and I had to agree. There was also someone moaning the whole time behind me. I contemplated walking home because home was about a mile away. I stayed there because I was worried about a stroke.

The receptionist finally called me in a little after ten o’clock. I sat in a chair behind a curtain. A nurse checked my vital signs. Once again he said they were perfect and asked if I drank, smoked, or took illicit drugs.

“No, yes, no,” I said.

“The doctor will see you shortly,” he said.

Nothing is ever shortly at the ER, except when they see me, which usually lasts under five minutes.

She came in about twenty to thirty minutes later, young and blonde, with a surgical mask on her face. I told her what was going on and handed her the sheet that the doctor at urgent care had given me. She felt my left hand. She asked me the same questions that the urgent care doctor had asked and said it could be possible ulnar nerve entrapment. She rolled her eyes after I said the urgent care doctor thought it could’ve been a possible ITA and that I needed an MRI. She said she didn’t think so. Right away, she made me grip a piece of paper with my left hand and told me to try to take it away from her as she pulled it. But I couldn’t hold it. She tried the same thing with my right hand. I was able to hang onto it.

“It definitely could be ulnar nerve entrapment.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s the same thing as when you bang your funny bone and your arm goes numb.”

I definitely know what that’s like.

She referred me to a hand specialist and wrote me a note to take time off work. They released me about twenty minutes later.

I took another Lyft ride home and got there around eleven o’clock, glad to be there because I hadn’t eaten all day. I wrote to my boss that I went to the hospital that night and I wouldn’t be able to make it to work the next day.

I ate and went to bed an hour or two later and woke up late at ten o’clock with my left hand still partially numb. I took a shower, wrote my morning pages, and called the hand specialist afterward to set an appointment. They said they would get in touch with me later. Now I wonder how long I’ll be out of work for. I don’t see how I can work with my left hand like this. It might require surgery.

Non-fiction

The Fist of Everyday

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I yelled in the shower my frustrations at ricecakes and said to myself I’m only awake to go back to bed. I have about fourteen hours until then, so I’ll do a bunch of jumping jacks on broken glass. That’s all it is. Some of the stuff is Jell-O. Other stuff is cold cement. But all that matters is that I go back to sleep.

I felt like a pirate without syphilis when I woke up this morning. It was the same as throwing a clock out the window. I usually feel like a craps dealer with his head in the oven, but maybe it’s the medication I’m taking that helps me feel a little more Jack Nicholson. I told my doctor about the dogshit I’ve been snorting, and she increased my dosage. I got worried. That’s something I don’t wanna hear. I would rather hear, “I’m glad things are getting better. Let’s lessen the dosage.” But I rarely ever hear that. In fact I don’t remember the last time a doctor said that. She said she needed bloodwork again. But why? What’s she going to do with it?

The sun is like an orange dipped in rancor. I stand in repose, as numb as eggs in a lazy refrigerator. The milk is full of snot. I boil inside at everything that can’t be redone. The devil reincarnate laughs at my disappointment. Maybe I should too. Oh, there are a lot of things to be disappointed about. It hovers like an alien craft and shits plums on my head. Maybe I should glue myself to a pillow in Saskatchewan to feel better after all the barrels of panther piss I’ve had to swallow. But that probably wouldn’t make a difference. I can’t remember the last time I held a knife and felt like Christmas on a Friday. The cars fill the air like jackhammers on vanquished cats. And all I can think about are Tetons skinning lions. What colossal rancor. But I don’t blame myself. It’s those who play Uno and try to shoot me with raisins from a BB gun. What hell they have to pay. Anyway, enough languid hostility for today. I still have to squeeze these grapes with my steely thumbs and crap out more penguin sweat. At least it’s not the pallor skin of a turtle.

Non-fiction

Death to AI

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One thing that has worried me a lot is the emergence of artificial intelligence and how it has advanced technology. I use my Starbucks app to place a mobile order, and it suggests what I should eat with my hazelnut oatmilk espresso. Artificial intelligence also reminds me to order through Starbucks each morning on my phone. And that’s just the Starbucks app. What about everything else?

The most troublesome part of AI is how it’s taking over actual writing. There are people who let AI compose their books for them. I read somewhere that they have to admit that artificial intelligence has written the book, or else they could get in trouble, I think if they publish through Amazon, but I’m not sure. It would make total sense. Some people claim that they can tell between human and AI writing. I don’t think I’m that perceptive. AI doesn’t have a soul, and it shows, but I could still be fooled. I’m quite sure that AI doesn’t have a sense of humor, or if it does, it’s not good. I can’t imagine so because a good humorist is self-deprecating. How could AI be that way since it’s not human? I asked AI to be funny, and all it did was post a list of blogs with humor. It didn’t tell me any jokes, so there’s that element.

I don’t see the point in having artificial intelligence write books. Where’s the fulfillment for the writer? On the flipside, how can readers enjoy fiction written by AI? I’ll never understand.

I guess there are positive things, such as its efficiency in handling mundane tasks that humans would rather not spend their time doing, or the fact that AI doesn’t need to sleep so it can work around the clock, or it can diagnose diseases in their early stages. Don’t ask me how. It can also help the disabled through text-to-speech technology and translate different languages. I guess it can help out artists, but this is the area of which I’m not too sure. I mean, part of artistry is in our flaws. But I can understand how it could be of use in the fields of science. It can help me pick which restaurants to eat at and do research for a student. I can’t believe it can regulate energy and support wildlife, all the while also enhancing safety at home and at the workplace. It can also track and predict natural disasters, which I wasn’t aware of until I looked up the benefits. Of course AI helps businesses in finances and security. It has improved video games and come up with ideas for bloggers of all interests. But keep AI out of my fiction, where it doesn’t belong. This should all be human effort, as it has been for centuries until now.

Non-fiction

Living on Instinct

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I moved outside to a warmer table that wasn’t underneath an air conditioner. It was quiet out there on the patio. I left the table, came back, and saw that my backpack was gone. I thought it wouldn’t be so bad if it was stolen. It had valuable things, but nothing like my laptop. I could’ve lived with the loss. But when I came back and saw that it was gone, I panicked. I looked around. It couldn’t possibly have been stolen.

Then the barista came outdoors, holding my backpack and smiling. I was relieved. My first guess was that the barista had taken it to prevent it from being stolen. But a man came up to me with long black hair and a toothless smile and said, “You left your backpack outside, man.” So he’d taken it inside because he thought I’d lost it. What a Good Samaritan. But at the same time I should’ve yelled at him for touching my stuff when I’d left it there on purpose to mark my territory, to show everyone the table was mine. My heart stopped racing. I could relax, but not too much because the day would carry too much weight.

That was Friday. I got a haircut finally. A barber smiled at me and asked if I was a walk-in. I said yes. He told me to wait a second. There was a man before me sitting on the waiting couch. The barber called me first and skipped over the other man.

The other man said, “Oh, I thought you were calling me since I was here first.”

The barber told him he would have to wait. The man sat on the couch again and moped. Poor man. I should’ve given up my spot, but I didn’t.

My barber was very soft spoken, so soft spoken that I thought I was losing my hearing. I listen to a lot of loud music through my headphones, so I figured it could’ve been hearing loss. I’ve been dealing with a lot of ringing in my ears, but it could be all in my mind, or the man was too soft-spoken to be heard all the way. Everything around him was louder, so his voice was lost in a sea of noise. I kept having to ask, “What?” I was worried.

He asked what I wanted, and I told him the usual: three on the sides and back and a little off the top. He asked if I wanted a three on both sides. I thought he was insane. I told him no and repeated a three on both sides and a three on the back, a little off the top. So he started shaving my head with the three, all the while talking.

His first question was if I was gay or straight. I didn’t think that mattered, and I didn’t think the question was appropriate. But I’m a nice, open man, so I told him I was straight. He was gay. And I live in a predominantly gay community, which he’d said, and I told him I knew. Then he began to mention all the different places to eat and drink at in this town. I could barely hear what he said. He said he was from Seattle, was born and bred in Indiana, and had moved to Palm Springs. He said Seattle was beautiful this time of year: the right temperature and everything was in bloom. I still haven’t gone to Seattle but plan to go sometime, as I’ve heard so many wonderful things. But I don’t plan on traveling anytime soon.

He snipped the top with scissors after shaving the rest of my head. Then he rubbed warm shaving cream along the sides of my face and pulled out a razor, the kind that barbers use to shave men’s beards. It scared me because as he was shaving me, he kept talking about restaurants to eat at and Indiana. I thought he should’ve focused on shaving me instead of talking. Luckily I didn’t walk away with any cuts, but he was a professional. He should’ve known how to shave me and talk at the same time. I tipped him twelve dollars and went on my way back home on foot. I won’t get another haircut for about the next two months.

Non-fiction

Wow

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A man just walked by with the most offensive smell. It was like he stunk of bad breath. Bad breath covered his body and he released it like a skunk. The stench is still in here in this coffee shop, but he’s far gone. Wow. Should I move? The stench just hangs in the air like a cobweb. Except I can’t see it obviously. I wish there was a fan in here. He sits outside on the patio with a wheelbarrow that he brought. I watched him walk into the bathroom. He was in there for a considerable amount of time. I haven’t smelled something so bad in years, or else I would’ve remembered it and commented on it. I didn’t know a human could smell this bad. Someone just came over and hugged him. Am I the only one who could smell him? I can’t go near him or else I wouldn’t be able to breathe. Maybe it’s his clothes that reek and he’s just fine. I won’t be able to tell. Thank god the odor has been whisked away by the wind of the door opening and closing.

They’ve taken away the tables here and replaced them with a bench with five small tables, so now people who sit next to me are practically sitting on my lap. The man to my right might as well be looking at my screen. But let him look. What do I care?

It’s not even seven in the morning, and the coffee shop is full. What will it be like by eight when I’m still here? These people will be long gone. All I can do is hope. I’m not saying I want the whole place to myself, but this seating is ridiculous. I should move outside to the patio, but it’s offensively hot. I’m worried that my laptop will melt on the table. It happens when my phone is baking. It turns off and tells me to cool it down before it turns back on. What if that happens to my laptop?

Anyway, I need a haircut. Why are haircuts so inconvenient? I tend to postpone appointments until my hair becomes unmanageable. Then I finally break down and get one. I wish I could cut my own hair instead of paying fifty dollars for a simple job. I tell them the same thing every time I sit in that large chair where they can adjust the height: a three on the sides and back and a trim on top. Of course they never trim it. They always go too far on the top as if they need something to do while they’re cutting my hair, as if their job is incomplete. I walk home looking like a marine.

Well, I moved outside to the patio. I’d rather have my laptop fry than have someone sitting on my lap. There’s another coffee shop, but it’s a mile away. It takes twenty minutes to walk to, and it’s a challenging walk in the scorching heat. The sweat stings my eyes by the time I get there. And when I get back home, my clothes are soaked. I could drive there, but that would be lazy, or I could just stay home. Maybe I’ll start doing that.

The smelly man has left the patio, and his stench has gone with him. Now I smell nothing. I wish I could smell the trees and the flowers, but all is lost.