Friday, July 27, 2012

"You can have anything you want!"

As I open the post office door, an adorable little boy stands in front of me, sporting a Superman shirt and covered in temporary tattoos of Spiderman in various poses. I grin at him and he gazes back with wide eyes, backing toward his father. The father is wide and pale, with sticky yellow hair and a gravelly voice. “You could help me if you really wanted to,” he is telling the woman behind the desk.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I really can’t.” The woman is petite, with short, curly, and silvering black hair. She speaks with a slight Spanish accent.
“Yes, you can.”
“Sir—you have priority mail written on the package.”
“Well, yeah, ‘cause I didn’t have tape.”
“You couldn’t buy tape?”
“I didn’t have money, but I had this tape.” The little boy is scratching at a tattoo on his neck. Spiderman’s head is nearly gone.
“But sir, if you don’t want to send it priority mail, then you shouldn’t use this priority mail tape.”
 “Why can’t you just send it?”
“Because I don’t want to be held responsible.”
“Responsible for what? Just send the package. Look, I’ll rip off the part that says ‘priority.’” He roughly rips off a bit of the tape and tosses it to the ground. His little boy kicks at it.
“I’m sorry sir, but I cannot help you unless you wish to send this priority mail. If not, you will need to repackage it. I need you to move aside so I can serve the next customer.”
“No, I won’t. You just don’t want to help me.”

After a few minutes of this, with the man growing ever ruder, the lady heaves a huge sigh and leaves to find her manager. The man looks around for his son and sees him a few feet away. “Get back here!” he yells, jerking his fist.
The boy rushes to his side. “You can do anything,” he tells his father. “You can have anything you want!”

The woman and her manager emerge from the back room. The manager begins talking to the man, while the lady calls for the next in line. Me. While I fill out the customs form for my package, I overhear the conversation next to me.
“Finally, someone who will help me. That woman just didn’t want to. I don’t know why. She was just being rude. She didn’t want to help me. She could have, but she didn’t.”
I smile sympathetically at the lady, who has remained remarkably calm, and write in the date.

The manager has helped the man repackage his envelope. “Now just take the package back up and she’ll help you get it on its way.”
“I don’t think she will,” the blond man grumbles. “She doesn’t like to help people.”
The lady hands me my receipt. “Thank you for your patience. Have a good day,” she says.
“You too!” I enthuse, trying to inject as much earnestness into the phrase as possible. She gives a tight smile as I walk out the door.
“Can I help the next person in line?”

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

My Brain Makes Bad Decisions

I originally posted this on Facebook a couple weeks ago, but I thought I'd preserve it for posterity. :)

Brain: Hey, you know what would be a great idea?
Me: What?
Brain: Wash this knife--reallyfast!
Me: Oh, yes! Excellent suggestion. *begins to wash knife* Lalala. . . *slices finger open* Shoot!
Brain: Ah, you knew this had to happen sometime. All good cooks lose a finger at some point. 
Me: No! No, no! Not going to. *grabs paper towel* It's not bleeding.
Brain: Probably will. You'll probably lose all your blood. Ever.
Me: Super glue. . . Super glue! *runs to room, rummages in drawer*
Brain: The glue will probably get in the cut and suffuse your bloodstream and--
Me: Super glue! *squishes cut together and applies glue as blood starts to pool*
Brain: Hey, look! Just in time.
Finger: Hey! Hey! You guys cut me! I'm the one who does all the work--I type a bunch of letters and I'm the one who plays with the touchpad on your computer and--
Brain: Silence him!
Finger: No! No, wait! I'm useful! I won't bleed, I pro--
Me: *muffles the finger in a bandage*
Brain: Good. *pauses* Now, you know what would be another great idea?

My New Friend Bill

So I have a spider who lives in the corner of my room. Let's call him Bill. I realized today that I really don't mind having him there. He's the sweet kind of spider with long, skinny legs and a pinhead body. All Bill does all day is hang in his web--right where I can see him. I never have to worry that he might be sneaking up on me. Whenever I think, "Dude, where's Bill?", I can look over to see him cheerily swaying in his web, moving his leg in a spider-wave.

I first met Bill one day when I was stretching on the floor by my window. He came traipsing along the ground. Now that I think about it, he probably wanted to join in the fun. "Look at me!" his buggy voice would squeal. "I can stretch too! See? My legs can wrap around my body!" But at the time, I was just worried I would squish him. "Go away!" I hissed, blowing him toward the window. Swept up on the current of air, Bill landed in a leggy heap by the baseboard. He quickly regained his footing and, swaying like a drunk, started toward me again. I blew him back again. This time he understood. Concealing his injured pride, Bill climbed up my purple-triangled wall to watch me from the windowsill, sipping the blood of his latest fly-victim from a straw.

Bill and I now get along fine. I let him live in my room, he makes sure I don't get eaten alive/ax-murdered by cockroaches. So far he's kept his end of the bargain--I haven't seen a cockroach since Bill moved in. I don't even remember he's a spider sometimes--he's just Bill, the guy in the corner of my room.