The man standing outside the convenience store was smoking. And as I walked towards the store, towards him, I took that in. Took the smoke in. Because it seemed like nobody smoked anymore. And I missed it. Romanticized it. Loved the way it smelled. And as I took that in, I noticed the smoking man was also holding a baby, which is a ridiculous thing to have not noticed right away, because there’s no mistaking a baby. It wasn’t a baby, baby. Not a rock-a-bye-baby-baby. It was more like a miniature kid, one that might be able to walk, to toddle. Okay. It was a toddler-looking-baby. But, still. It was definitely a baby, and the smoking man had that baby on his hip, not like a woman would have a baby on her hip, but how a smoking man would have a baby on his hip. And it sounds odd, and I assure you it looked even odder, because the baby looked like an accessory. An accessory that both belonged and didn’t belong at the same time. One that didn’t quite fit the circumstance, but kind of did, like a fancy western belt buckle might look on the waistband of well-worn jeans, on a faded cowboy at a black tie function. And I sat with that analogy for a moment and wondered where the hell it had come from. And I think I said, ‘belt buckle’? out loud, and I realized how quickly my thoughts were coming, and how completely enthralled I was with this smoking-baby-holding-man, and how I was astounded by his sheer shamelessness; impressed by his boldness by the lack of a social mask. And I thought about my social masks. About all social masks. About how deep down we might all be smoking-baby-holders but aren’t because society would frown on that would punish us for that because society is only interested in the mask, in the masks we don, in the way we present ourselves, only interested in what we show and not what we hide, and I loved that the smoking-baby-holding-man wasn’t hiding, and then I wondered if maybe he’d been transported from another time, a time when being a smoking-baby-holder was okay, and maybe it would have been okay in the 60’s, and as I thought this final thought, I, of course, realized that I’d been staring at the smoking-baby-holding-man the entire time I was walking toward the store, toward him, and so when I reached the front of the store, the smoking-baby-holder was staring at me as well, maybe wondering about my mask, maybe impressed by my lack of a mask, which was evident in the way I’d been staring. Staring at him. And staring is unacceptable. Not mask-like at all. And so the smoking-baby-holding man smiled at me, and he inhaled deeply, one last time, and that baby didn’t even scrunch up his nose at the smoke, he just kind of hung out on that smoky hip, like a diapered accessory should, and the smoking-baby-holder tossed his cigarette butt and didn’t bother to stamp it out. Didn’t seem to care if anything went up in a blaze. Or not. And I scanned that smoking-baby-holding-man and that diapered accessory for any discernable class differences, and couldn’t come up with any, because I wanted some sort of explanation; I wanted to know if maybe the smoking-baby-holder was poor or drunk or something that could explain this maskless behavior, because I’d already dismissed time travel, already dismissed his transport from the 60’s. And we looked the same. We were dressed the same; were both wearing clean jeans and t-shirts, and flip flops, and the diapered accessory was clean and chubby, and didn’t seem any worse for wear for all that smoke. And the smoking-baby-holder wasn’t a bad looking guy, shaggy hair, rough beard, but nice teeth, clean teeth, I thought, white teeth, and he asked me for directions, asked me how to get to the 5 north, and I pointed over my left shoulder without taking my eyes off him, and he asked me my name, and I didn’t tell him because I was still taking him in, still digesting him, and he pulled out his phone, from his back pocket, and asked if he could get my phone number, and I wrinkled my brow at him, because I would never give a maskless-smoking-baby-holding-man my number and I wondered why he thought someone like me would be interested in someone like him, and I said, no. And I started to walk into the store, and then he said, ‘Change.’ And I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement and I thought about that word for a good ten minutes as I wandered aimlessly around the aisles of the convenience store wondering what on earth I’d even come in for.
Posted on: Sun, 17 Nov 2013 18:59:56 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015