A Significant Moment
True story: One day, I went to a new salon to get my hair cut. The woman cutting my hair was pretty nice, sort of in a 'Latina grandma' kinda way.
Anyway, as she was wrapping up, she asked me how I wanted the back of my head to look. The bottom naturally formed a point, but she could cut it in it in a straight line. I didn't really care, so I randomly picked the straight line option.
She reccomended I go with my natural point, since it WAS natural. Also, she said it looked younger, and only old people had their hair cut straight in the back. I changed my mind and told her to keep the point, since like I said, I didn't really have a preference.
She liked that choice more, and as further encouragement, said: "We are young for a moment, and old for the rest of our lives. You'll have plenty of time to be old."
I thought that was pretty profound and interesting, and I made a mental note of it (I often write down interesting bits of conversations, as I read that was a good practice), and told myself to look it up later. It almost sounded like something the lady might have read somewhere, but when I looked it up, I couldn't find any results. Maybe it's just a common saying...
...or maybe that hairdresser just casually spoke a little bit of genius to me as she cut my hair to a point in the back.
I'm not sure, but the moment and the saying stuck with me.
**identical to submission to contest**
M = Me
OM = Other Me
M: How’s life treating you?
OM: Guessing you already know.
M: Most likely. But what’s your take on it?
OM: Rough. Discouraging. In other words, life is life. Breaking news, I know.
M: Of course. But we live for the little moments, right?
OM: Where’d you read that?
M: I made it up. But that’s not to say it hasn’t been written before. What’s it matter anyway? Being a writer isn’t synonomous with being original.
OM: We both have a few names in our heads, don’t we?
M: I’ll say it again. Most likely.
OM: So what’s your take?
M: On what?
OM: Life. Duh.
M: Well, I kind of told you, but I can elaborate. I think we push through most of life, that vast majority being trials and errors and trials to come, in order to get to the little moments of happiness or feelings of success.
OM: Is there such thing? As success, I mean.
M: I should hope so. But if you think success brings satisfaction, you’ve got another thing coming.
OM: I figure it already came.
M: I figure you’re right.
OM: Well... I should probably get back to... doing... something.
M: As should I. But one last thing.
OM: Yeah?
M: Just know... They’ll be moments when you’ll enjoy it.
OM: Enjoy what?
M: Life... Duh.
Words to Myselves
M = Me
OM = Other Me
M: How’s life treating you?
OM: Guessing you already know.
M: Most likely. But what’s your take on it?
OM: Rough. Discouraging. In other words, life is life. Breaking news, I know.
M: Of course. But we live for the little moments, right?
OM: Where’d you read that?
M: I made it up. But that’s not to say it hasn’t been written before. What’s it matter anyway? Being a writer isn’t synonomous with being original.
OM: We both have a few names in our heads, don’t we?
M: I’ll say it again. Most likely.
OM: So what’s your take?
M: On what?
OM: Life. Duh.
M: Well, I kind of told you, but I can elaborate. I think we push through most of life, that vast majority being trials and errors and trials to come, in order to get to the little moments of happiness or feelings of success.
OM: Is there such thing? As success, I mean.
M: I should hope so. But if you think success brings satisfaction, you’ve got another thing coming.
OM: I figure it already came.
M: I figure you’re right.
OM: Well... I should probably get back to... doing... something.
M: As should I. But one last thing.
OM: Yeah?
M: Just know... They’ll be moments when you’ll enjoy it.
OM: Enjoy what?
M: Life... Duh.
Chris-mas Eve
“So yeah. It’s pretty stressful.”
“Sounds like it.”
Chris patted Donnie on the shoulder with a firm hand. “You should be happy with your job. What is it nowadays? Fast food?”
Donnie nodded, licking his lips. He could smell the carrots steaming from the kitchen. "Yes, that is one of my… many jobs.”
“Many?” Chris laughed. “You’re a hard-working lad.”
“Well, yes, Dad. Not all of us have a job that pays as well as yours.”
The doorbell rung as Chris nodded his head. “Who’s that?”
Donnie was already up on his feet and answering the door. “Remember, I told you my friend was coming over for our Christmas Eve dinner. Be cool.” Donnie opened the door and let in a stout, sturdy, and somewhat frozen man. “This is Bill, Dad.”
Bill shook Chris’s hand.
“Bill, huh? I like your jacket,” Chris said.
“Thanks, it was cold out there. I like your beard.”
“Oh please,” Donnie said, beginning to lead Bill toward the kitchen. “Don’t get him started on his beard. He’s been growing it out for years, and he’s too proud of it.”
“Why don’t you let him sit down and we can talk together?” Chris asked, reaching over to gently touch Donnie’s arm.
Donnie sighed and gestured Bill to a chair by the Christmas tree.
“So,” Bill said, sitting down, “what’s cooking in the kitchen?”
“Carrots,” Donnie said.
“For the reindeer,” Chris added.
“Reindeer?” Bill asked. “Like Santa’s reindeer?”
“No,” Donnie said quickly. “My dad actually does sleigh-rides for people. Like carriage rides, but for the Christmas season.”
“Does he pretend to be Santa?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Okaaaay,” Bill said slowly. “Well, I suppose that seems like a fun job.”
“I actually run a business,” Chris said. “It’s a delivery service, of sorts. We manufacture things and deliver them to houses. At least that’s what the business is supposed to do.”
“Does it not work?” Bill asked, confused.
“Well, sometimes it’s pretty hard to get those little men to make everything correctly,” Chris explained.
Bill’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. Are the men actually little—like in size—or are you just verbally belittling them?”
“They’re usually about four feet tall.”
“So,” Donnie interrupted, “dinner?”
“Forget dinner, Don!” Bill exclaimed, standing up. “I think your dad is Santa Claus!”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Chris laughed, his body shaking in a way in which one might describe as a bowlful of jelly.
“No, I’m… pretty sure your dad is Saint Nick. Look at his cheeks—they’re red like roses. Don’t you remember the poem? His cheeks are like roses, his nose like a cherry.”
“I highly disagree,” Donnie said, gripping Bill by the shoulders. “His cheeks could easily be as red as tomatoes.”
“And his nose?”
“Like a red… grape?”
Bill stared blankly at Donnie.
“What? Is that not a thing?”
Bill took a few deep breaths, composing himself. “I actually think I’d better head home now. I would like to tell my kids that I met Santa Claus.” Bill started to leave.
Donnie turned to Chris. “You have got to find a better way of explaining your profession.” Then he turned and headed toward Bill. “Bill, don’t leave! My dad isn’t Kris Kringle!”
“I’ll see you tonight, Bill,” Chris called after him. “Don’t forget the cookies!”
“Dad!”
“And I like my milk warm!”
Personal Space
I have never been one to be easily irritated. Working in an office cubicle, surrounded by the cacophony that is the clicking of pens, the snaps of staplers, and the grinding sound of bum wheels dragging across the dirty carpet, the time to get annoyed would have long passed. Nevertheless, the woman that inherited the cubicle across from mine got under my skin almost immediately. Her breathing was uneven and oddly quick, her keystrokes rapid and asynchronous, and her chair seemed unable to remain stationary.
I kept my thoughts to myself, until she stood up to peer over the cubicle wall and said, “Stop spying on me.”
I was about to open the bottle of my rage, when she sat back down in her chair, picking up a pen and incessantly clicking it. Over the course of the next few days, similar incidents occurred, in which the woman accused me of spying. I hopelessly tried to block her out.
One day, I heard the barely audible sound of her crying. As far as I knew, this was the first time she had ever done so, and I walked around to her desk to ask if everything was okay. She nodded, but I knew she was lying, so I stayed with her for a while after. During that time, she never once complained about my presence, so the following day, I requested to switch my cubicle with the one next to hers. My wish was granted, and it wasn’t long before I began having simple conversations with the woman. She never mentioned or related anything to her personal life, so I didn’t bring it up.
I began to see the padded wall between us as what it was: a barrier. I decided to disconnect the wall between us from the mini-maze of cubicle dividers. I didn’t receive pushback from any of my co-workers, and as long as my work was as productive as ever, my supervisor turned a blind eye. My hushed-whisper conversations with the lady became longer and occurred more frequently. Then one Friday (I remember this vividly), she showed up to work, and something was wrong. This would be the last day I saw her.
Over our prior conversations, the lady’s mannerisms grew more relaxed and subtle, but today, it was like she had reverted to the version of herself that I had initially met. She was silent and trembling as she carried out her typical duties. Finally, as if to provide a climax to the day, she stood up and left the office. There was still several hours until her shift ended, and even more so until mine, but I got up and followed her anyway. She stopped at her car, a gray Ford sedan, and jabbed a hand into her pocket, searching for her keys.
“Is everything okay?” It was one of those questions that you know the answer to, but feel compelled to ask anyway.
The lady responded by breaking into tears. I didn’t ask for the details, as they seemed nothing more than that. I drove the lady to the house she called her home and, after checking to make sure she was alright (to which she responded with dry-faced sincerity), I left. In hindsight, I should have driven her home in my car, but I was okay walking back to the office. By the time I got there, my shift would have been over as well, and a complaint on my desk, but my job was the last thing on my mind.
I didn’t hear from the lady over the weekend, and she didn’t show up to work the following Monday. Nor did she show up to work the days after. On numerous occasions, someone tried to set the cubicle divider back up, but I protested. It was my way of leaving the door open, should she ever return.
Why I haven’t written anything in a while - a haiku (because)
My mind is quiet.
I can't think of words to say.
So I give you this.
#haiku
#brainfart
So that's why I haven't written anything that I've posted here, but it's not that I HAVEN'T been writing. I've actually been writing a lot in a book called "Harbinger". The first two chapters of that book are actually posted on Prose, but no one have commented/liked/seen them, so... I'm actually on chapter 18, so if anyone gets into the story, I can post more chapters.