There is such a thing as being too damned friendly.
When I am writing, I try to give off an unfriendly, “Asshole” kind of vibe. (As opposed to the friendly asshole vibe I give off the rest of the time.)
Mainly because nothing sucks worse than getting a line in my head that has just the right amount of cerebral stank on it only to have it evaporate like early morning mist because a stranger has decided I was BFF material.
“What are you writing?”
This is the witty opening line that ruined my thought process and sewered the killer blog idea in my head.
The unspoken here is that now you are stuck with my pissy, angst-filled rant of a post about shitting on strangers.
Suck it up, life is like that.
As I pull myself away from my writing I take a good look at “Magoo”. (I can’t remember what he said his name was, but Magoo fits.)
Magoo is one of nature’s children. He has an innocence about him that is almost charming and in any other setting, I would be happy to chat.
But he is in the wrong creative neighborhood at the wrong cerebral time of the night.
Lot of mind assault and battery happens in those settings. (He would be the star of the show if there was a mental episode of “Cops”. And I realize this imagery is a stretch. Work with me.)
But his question does demand an answer.
“Obituaries. I write obituaries for the LA Times.”
“Oh.” Deer in the headlights. The little smile is gone.
I’m not finished.
“Pays better than you think. Plus you get to spend a lot of time talking to grieving families.” (Its important to smile and be too excited at this point. It twists up the deeply ingrained expectation of being really serious on a serious topic. Like a giggling mortician, its out of place and more than a little disturbing.)
“Is that a good thing?” The question kind of tumbles confusedly out of his mouth.
“Its awesome, really gives you a heads up on estate sales and used cars.”
“Oh.” The deer in the headlights is beginning to realize that the headlights are not friendly.
“I am up for a promotion. Sex crimes beat. You talk with a LOT of rape and shooting victims.”
Eye contact breaks at this point and you can feel the flight part of the fight or flight reflex taking over.
He’s not sure what is wrong with me or the situation, but he knows SOMETHING is wrong and its making him antsy.
Almost on cue, the guy mutters something that sounds like something between a hiccup and a word that sounded like “Megosh” and walked away.
More like scurries away. I watch him go, smile and put my headphones back on.
Yeah, I know.
It is what it is.
What kills me is, I had my headphones on.
I could put a sign on the table that says, “Fuck off” but I figured the headphones were enough.
Besides, the last time I put the sign out, enough people complained that the manager asked me to take it down.
Once again, I know.