It's rain-out theater. Here's a rare attempt at humor, a piece I wrote about ten years ago, The Stream of Conscious of a Middle Age Man:
Descending the stairs of his building: "D'you lock the door?" Stops, thinks. "Geez, can't remember." Tries to picture it, pivots. "No, you're not goin' back. If you didn't lock it, you deserve to be robbed."
Reaching the street: "Alternate side? Where'd I park the car?" Cranes neck, looks in each direction. "There it is. What's today?" Falls into thought. "Thursday. Watched Law and Order last night." Pauses. "Or was that the night before? No." Crosses street, looks up at sign. "Thursday. Does that mean you can park there Thursday or not park there?" Gears grind in head. "C'mon, you're a college graduate. Shouldn't be this hard to figure out." Stares at ground. "No, can't park there - right?" Does a 360, unsure. "Screw it."
Walking toward station: "There she is. God, what a fox." Shakes head. "Hello - she's 20 years younger than you. She needs more than 'one and done.'" Runs hand through hair, breathes sigh of relief discovering it's combed. "As if she'd give it a second thought after laughing at you."
As train approaches: "Easy. Let them fight for a seat, even though you'll be on your feet all day. Most of 'em aren't feminists. Not worth the loss of dignity."
In corner of car, reaching into breast pocket: "Damn, forgot your glasses. Way to go." Depressed, folds newspaper. Minutes later, feeling about neck, discovers glasses on string, rolls eyes heavenward. Looks to see if anyone has noticed. "Lose your head if it wasn't...."
Scanning ads: "Ooh, a coupon. Better tear it out now before you forget." Avoids eye contact with those around him, places coupon in breast pocket.
Looking up as doors open and commuters squeeze aboard: "Wow, look at this older woman. Wish she was pressing against me." Returns to page. "Older woman? She's younger than you." Hangs head. "Still thinking like you're 30."
Gazing out nearest window: "D'you miss the transfer? Don't tell me. Goin' over the bridge again?" Dreads embarrassment, even though no one but he will know. Anus unpuckers as train enters underground station. "Whew."
Leaving subway, heading toward work place, humming to self: "Oh, God - Lite FM! How'd it happen?"
Exiting the bathroom, touching gut: "D'you get it all? Can't tell any more. Hope you don't have to go back for an encore." Frowns. "Middle age sucks."
Walking towards the workstation, exchanging smiles with young woman: "The new math - 50 goes into 25 at least twice."* Laughs at self. "And then you woke up. Has no idea you're old enough to be her ol' man. Yeah, right. Probably feels sorry for you." Titters aloud, looks around to see if anyone is giving him sidelong glances.
Turning on handheld computer, donning glasses: "How silly must you look with these at the end of your nose?"
On line at lunch: "Roughage. No fries, no dessert."
Seated with co-workers, discussing whether a certain celebrity is still alive: "At least they don't know, either - and they're a lot younger than you." Laughs diabolically to self.
Heading back to work: "D'you wipe the crumbs off your face?" Discreetly runs hand over mouth. Checks fly. "Don't need to do that again."
Returning to workstation, grimacing: "Why's the air-conditioning so high? Need mittens and a scarf."
Half hour after lunch: "Geez, gotta take a squirt already. Bad prostate?" Tenses. "Check up soon. Oh, God - the finger!" Eyes close in anticipation of pain and humiliation of violation. "Remember when men were men and didn't worry about every little thing? So soft compared to dad."
Fidgeting in place, pulling on seat of pants: "Uh-oh - itchy butt. God, are you gonna have to start carrying the medicated pads around with you?" Chuckles triumphantly as itching stops. "Yes!"
On being teased by golfing buddy about his putter: "How'd you lose the thing? It's always the last thing in your hand. Must've fell out of the bag. How? Where is it? Good thing your pecker's not detachable."
Riding train home, looking up urgently: "D'you make the transfer? Miss the stop?" Intestines uncoil at sight of symbol that shows it's right train.
Approaching mailbox: "One thing you still remember to do." Grumbles at literary rejection slip. "What d'they know."
Riding indoor bike: "This sucks. Stop tryin' to stay young. Eat cookies and ice cream. This sucks. Give up. This...."
Doing push-ups: "Only halfway down. Gettin' soft. Useta touch your chest to the floor every one."
Rushing to stove, turning off gas jet: "Damn, overcooked pasta."
Crossing room, halting: "Why'd I come over here?" Looks around, baffled. "Damn."
Sitting at computer: "What's my password?" Stares blankly at screen, fingers drumming on desk.
Stretching out on couch, watching TV, appalled: "How'd we get from The Honeymooners to Friends?" Clicks remote. "Ooh, Seven-of-Nine. Are those real? Can that uniform be any tighter? God bless the guy who's sleepin' with her."
Waking up to infomercial: "Ugh."
Settling into bed: "D'you lock the door?" Debates, opens eyes, frowns, gets up to check. "Arrgh!"
Read Vic's stories, free:
http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature
No comments:
Post a Comment