it was drizzling

I nearly plowed over her in the darkness. She sat on a short set of stairs, outside the patio of the apartment building. The smell of foreign brand tobacco might have flagged me to her position on the step. I told her she scared me, something I'd thought of telling her in the past. Why scared, she wondered? I recovered, I had feared I'd run her over on my way to the street. It was the neighbor's girlfriend. Or the girl whose boyfriend and she live in the door down from mine. Or the female part of a couple who lives close to me on my floor. Slice it how you'd like. I've found from experience it's best to slice it as evenly as possible; in these tight quarters. We said our hellos, and she explained her absence from her apartment as needing some time to toy with ideas of slicing her relationship. Spoke of tiresome dutch-style expense division, and chivalry. She sipped her Miller Lite, I lit a cigarette.

She's a talkative, tall blonde, and if I hang around her in passing for more than a moment, I freeze into place. A conversation with a woman like her is a privilage, no doubt. There's no lack of charm about it. Like anyone from any land has an accent, she accents her often fascinating side of the dialog with a twinge of blonde. But no! Every point lands with insight and substance. So, she was in a tiff with her boyfriend, of seven years. She's a nice girl, I've met the guy, seven years? They'll work this out. I let my mind wander for a spasm. But no.

She spoke of fishing, and some of the local fish that have been caught in lakes of our region. I had not heard such enthusiasm for the sport since I heard myself talk to anyone when I was seven and obsessed with fishing. I thought it was great she carried it on in herself, to adulthood. She told me of a convicted arsonist once associated with our building, on the prowl about a year ago. The guy could've gone after our building if he'd not been caught. I think she was a little disappointed by my fear reaction. My nerves were still just a little apparent from her visage there.

We got on the subject of incense, when I asked where in town sells the junk. Junk; I'm looking for opium-incense, real extract if possible. My apartment smells like generic cigarette tobacco, I said. Apparently I'm not the only one in the building that will get to one's car, only to go back inside to be sure there's not a cigarette left burning. That was a laugh; really. Shutting off the stove is another one, I said. Like you're trying deperately to recall the synapse and feeling of twisting the knob to the 'off' position. Connotative, but inawkwardly delivered. I was doing pretty well at talking to this pretty lady. It was dark though, and the telekinetic tongue-tying rays her summer getups pump out were slight.

Anyway, she had to pee, informing me that she'd peed there outside the building on occasion. She was one up on me. I would eventually, she said. I continued my walk to the store to get a six-pack of rootbeer, so I could relax with one before bed. The conversation had held me up, though. Arriving at the store, it was 12:10 AM, ten minutes past the cutoff for purchasing rootbeer. I selected a forty-ounce of Miller Beer, and told the cashier that I was just lettin' the system know where I stand on this ordinance.

say it with me, sat-chel

The other day I had a few items to deliver to the post office. Feeling carrying them in my hands would be awkward, I chose what was to reveal itself as an even more awkward method. What it really is, is a bag. I call it my satchel. It's been called worse. It's camoflauge and sports a patch bearing a pair of tenis shoes. As well, there are punk rock pins affixed to the strap. No one's gone as far as to call the pins brooches, but some ask, what's with the man-purse?

I set off on my errands. Most days begin with the taking of coffee. Today, I'd give my trusty Mr. Coffee a break, and go to the only café in the town's radius that allows smoking. I'm told the place is actually a social club, and has dodged smoking referendums by assuming this classification. It cost me a dollar to join the club, and I haven't been spammed yet, in any way. There was a new waitress working there that day.

I swung my satchel, as I insist, into the booth and took a seat. The waitress seemed friendly. So, I got into a conversation with the waitress, about places I could break into the music scene. Well, she said, there is the Glass Hat. What an interesting name. I reached for my satchel, wherein was a pen and notebook, and jotted down The Glass Hat. I imbibed my coffee, and set out for the post office, I was halfway there.

Now, satchels can be worn a number of ways. My satchel has a long strap. The strap can be placed to cross the chest, done by some to thwart muggers. And, I realize this is the suggested configuration for women in larger cities, when speaking of a purse. Which, my bag is not, I repeat. My satchel may be worn over one shoulder, or, get this, it may be carried like a briefcase by the short cloth handle affixed to the top of it. Purses have chambers. My bag has zippered compartments, not unlike a backpack.

I arrived at the post office, posted my mail, and slung my satchel over one shoulder, ready to leave. Well, I saw a friend of mine from Jr. High addressing an envelope on one of the tables. I stepped over to him and said what's up. Back in Jr. High the two of us were in track and field together. I recalled that he was the one laughing hysterically at me after a short sprint I made. Now, to defend myself ahead of time, I primarily ran the 110 low hurdles as an event. And, I could beat somewhere just under half the competitors, not by raw speed, but agility. Runners would be falling down in the lanes beside me, but I lept on. But, at one practice this friend took good note of how I mistakenly ran a sprint against all of the girls on the team... and lost to all of them. Jr. High is far past, what is new, my friend? We chatted, and I mentioned that I'd started a music thing on the side, and that someone had suggested a venue. He asked which one, for he was a bartender at a martini bar. I replied, the Glass Hat. He turned red, the Glass Hat is a gay bar!

Now, I'd have no problem playing music at a gay bar, much less entering one with a close friend. But, I did hit on that waitress the next time I came into the social club. The news of the orientation of the Glass Hat tavern was a bit numbing, but I threw one rubbery leg after another out of the post office. I came to an intersection where two girls were parked in their car. By now I had made the connection between my bag and the waitress's suggestion, and was made a little conscious. I'd expected the girls to point and call at me. No, they were chatting to one another, and I don't know if they made note of me. But surely they saw me. What happened as I passed closer to the car, was that the girl in the passenger seat began fluffing her hair as they do, in the mirror. Now, I'm sure I've seen girls do this before, but was it on t.v.? It seemed, in my stress over my toting preference, maybe I was just like one of the girls. There is always attraction level to consider, and I beg to be modest. However, could've the assumption been made either consciously or subconsciously?

The next episode in the man-purse chronicles occurred on my way home, at a gas station. A young man and I came to the entrance at exactly the same time. He may have noticed the purse__no! I mean, he may have noticed my satchel. I was still conscious of assumptions about it. So, I insisted he go first, and to top it, I held the door as he entered. I caught a sideways glance as I was walking to the cashier, but perhaps it was suggestion. I purchased my diet berries and cream Dr. Pepper, and left.