Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Best whispering footsteps
The plastic lid to my takeaway honey chicken and fried rice Chinese food from the Thai takeaway was blowing majestically in the wind. Two or three feet it carried until it came to a sponge soft nails on the chalkboardesq scrape across the tiled floor. Awaking all in the surrounding vicinity to look up, numerous individual minds and drifting and dreaming imaginations all now focused on the one thing like magic.
Two men in business suits opposite me were now looking upon me with a hint of 'you better pick that up you littering fuck' glistening off their eye balls. No words spoken, but a million conveyed.
My warm yet gentle 'of course I'm gonna pick it up, I'm not some cunt who doesn't pick up his trash, so don't accuse me you dicks' smile failed to relieve their lovely silent and yet poignant plea. So I added a heartfelt 'it's the third time it's blown down there, ok? I've nearly finished my lunch and I'll pick it up a third time when I make my ultimate trek towards the garbage bins, yes bins plural because I will not just take care of my garbage responsibilities in the minimum required ways, but I'll make the extra fucking effort to divide my plunder amongst the most socially and environmentally beneficent receptacles, so don't you fucking judge me you assholes, I'm one of the good guys, I fucking take care of shit, and I don't accuse people of being cunts without evidence like you two fucking cunts' raise of the eyebrows.
The two business men and I locked horns briefly, glints from our eyes shooting at each other's like fireworks on New Years Eve, in a standoff so beautiful and touching I won't label it Mexican, because I wouldn't want the delicious foods from that wonderful nation to enter the picture and dilute what was already heartfelt and moving.
Just then three juvenile delinquents, no older than fourteen, walked past smoking cigarettes oblivious, it seemed, to just how pathetically lame they appeared in their cliche attempts to look cool or grown up or whatever it is that makes kids choose to look so freaking stupid. The two business men and I watched them walk past then looked back at each other and we all laughed heartily at the little tools, our chuckles now absolutely laced, saturated even, with mutual recognition of just how ridiculously pathetic these tools looked.
I took one the final forkful of my lunch. Stood up. Reached down to pick up the stray lid. But it was no longer there.
I looked all around for it. It had vanished. Evaporated. Passed into the netherworld. As if our mocking of the teenage losers had been rewarded with a true miracle.
I put my remaining garbage in the various trash cans and walked away. The scrapping of my shoes on the tiles from my lazy strides whispering 'life sure if beautiful you cunts'.