I
almost hit a guy in the back of the head the other day.
It would have been so wrong. I mean first of all, it's
usually wrong to hit total strangers in the back of
the head and he wasn't really doing anything that bad.
He was walking past me, on my right side, talking on
his cell.
But
a train had broken down in front of us and we were getting
in a half an hour late and I'd been sitting on the train
wanting to be home, wanting to be home, wanting to be
home. I'd been wanting to be home for the last hour
at work and the ride on the shuttle. I. Just. Wanted.
To. Be. Home.
And
he came up on my right side and I was moving to the
right and I felt myself slapping him in the back of
the head and saying - watch where you're going. But
he really wasn't in my way and it was just wrong. And
I wasn't liking myself very much.
Although,
Kristina tells me I am not alone in my desire to hit
people in the head.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a
damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily
pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every
funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand
of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from
deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking
people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon
as I can. - Melville
Not
that I ever thought I was.
I
walked to the bus stop, which was occupied by a homeless
woman and her cart. We talked about a club she'd been
at for Halloween and an Indian Head nickel she owned
and a penny with Abraham Lincoln's daughters on it.
Well. She talked. I listened. She was a little crazy
but I was the one who almost hit someone in the back
of the head for no good reason.
The
bus took forever to get there. My trip home was close
to two hours long and I was just done in. Done.
On
Halloween there was a party at work. You didn't hafta
go but if you left you weren't going to get paid. So
I sat at my desk and watched a
movie. Something about that movie made me feel better
about my current silence. I don't know why exactly.
He wasn't silent. I am.
I
don't have much to say at work. I don't have much time
at home. I need quiet. I cannot hear myself. I need
time. I need silence. And. I don't have anything to
say.
I
just get ready for the bus and the training and the
shuttle and the hours and the shuttle and the train
and the bus. And then I go through it all and ... I
am silent.
It's
Sunday night. I've had a few days to calm down. I don't
feel like hitting anyone. I feel ready to sleep. And
get ready.
Bukowski
worked at the post office. Stevens
sold insurance. They did not fall silent.