As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2
"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M. Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller.
He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back?
An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be.
(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)
Chapter 1
Me
"They're everywhere. Here,
there – even next to here, even close to there. You see them all the time, but you don't see them ... understand? You look right into their eyes but
don't know what they are inside, down deep, where their real selves are – where
it really matters.
"I knew you'd say that.
Heard it a million times ... nah, more than a million times. Billions. Billions of times.
More than billions ... what's more than a billion-billion? Is it something like a gazillion, a
multi-billion? Gigillion?
"Heard it lots. That's
good enough to say I guess. Lots. But lots more than lots. Like, when I say 'lots' you take the
number that comes to mind and you add it by another billion – and then add that
by still more billions. That would
only be a bit of the real number of times I've heard it.
"Just like you, they say 'You're nuts' when I tell them the truth
of what's going on, what's up, what's happening. Bonkers, mad, insane – majorly, completely, totally – fucked
up. That's me ... I mean, that's
not me. Really! That's just what they say when I say
what I say, when I tell them about the shit going down. I'm not crazy, though. Lots of other things, sure – but then
who isn't, right? But I'm not. Crazy, I mean.
"I know how it sounds.
I do. Really. But I say it anyway, because someone
has to say it. Even if they do say
I'm not right in the head when I say it.
"But aliens are out there.
Here, I mean.
"Don't look at me that way.
You know what I mean, like I'm crazy or something. Everyone looks at me that way when I
tell them the truth – or did I say that already? Not about the aliens, I mean, but that people always say I'm
fucked up when I tell them. I did
say that, didn't I?
"But not because of the aliens. They're there. You
know it. Don't tell me you don't. You see them all the time. There might be one standing behind me,
or next to you, or in front of you, or next to you when you ride the bus ... or
do you drive? They're like the guy
my friend Larry saw while he was at the clinic waiting for his meds. He told me – and I trust Larry in this
even though he really is nuts, but never about the aliens – that he could just
tell, you know, that there was this guy there who wasn't ... like the rest of
us. Humans, I mean. And when someone just isn't human then
what else could they be but an alien, right? Doesn't that make sense? I think it does.
That's not the kind of logic a real crazy person would use – is it?
"Nah, I don't know where they come from. I'm not an astrologist. Maybe nearby, like Mars or Venus or Vulcan, or maybe
somewhere real far away. Don't
know how they get here, either: ships, or rays, or maybe they have homes and
stuff. But they're here.
"Here and everywhere.
Everywhere ... but they're aliens, see? So they don't quite 'get' us, what it means to be us. And that's what fucks them up. All of us got all our guts in the right
places, the right spine, the correct feet ... but the aliens, they aren't born
like us. I don't know how they
come out – hatched, grown, built, whatever – but they don't have mothers or
fathers. They have to copy the
rest of us who do ... have mothers and fathers I mean. Not that having them is good, you
understand, mothers and fathers I mean.
Fathers, especially. Like
mine. Not to complain, you know. Just that sometimes having one – like
mine – isn't a good thing.
"But having one – even a bastard like mine – makes us people,
right? They don't have one, or a
mother either, and because of that they have to cheat.
"So what they do is they just look around, right? They look at us and find one that looks
right to them. Maybe pretty
because – I don't know – they want to be pretty if they are a girl, or handsome
if they are a boy, or maybe they think ugly is pretty, or pretty is ugly,
whatever. I don't know what they
think, or why they do it, because they're aliens, right? And no one can know what an alien
thinks. But they do look at us,
you can tell that, and after they look at us they go back to their planet, or
their ship, or their houses and they put on makeup and all, fake faces, like
masks, maybe even fake eyes and fake hands like you see in the movies, and
because they do, these aliens, and you can't tell one of them from one of us.
"But they aren't like us, or they can just pretend to be like us,
like humans I mean. That's how you
can tell that they aren't like us, because they look just like us.
"Why? Don't know that. They're aliens, right? They do alien things because they like
alien things for alien reasons. I
used to think they wanted our jobs, like Mexicans, but no one wants to do our
jobs, not even Mexicans. Then I
thought they might want our human women, like maybe they don't have any where
they're from. But if they do then
why don't they all look like movie stars?
They could want to take over, but I'll tell you, friend, I hope they do
because even something with alien arms and weird, creepy alien eyes could
probably do a better job than those fuckheads in Washington. Or they could just need water, food, or
shit like that. Or they might just
want a new place to live. Like I
said, they're aliens – so I don't know why they're here, just that they're all
over place, looking just like us.
"Hmm? Yeah, I guess
that could be it. But like I said
I don't know why they're here, just that they are. They could be here, like you said, because they just like to
look like us and all, like maybe they are real ugly – ugly, ugly, ugly, and we
might be the best looking folks in the universe. Maybe, but – well, have you looked in a mirror lately?"
* * * *
Morning. Belch. Monday morning, double belch in a venti cup. Nothing
special in that: lots of people hate mornings. Hell, everyone hates Monday mornings.
Blink, blink, blink. The red numbers on my nightstand still
there, still too high, no matter how many times I blinked, hoping each time I
wasn't reading them right.
But I was reading them right. I was also late.
Crap. No, not just crap: double crap in a venti cup.
Covers tossed aside, I jumped
– or rather stumbled – out and into the bathroom. Hello, me, I
thought, greeting my reflection, my face hovering in the mirror above the sink. My blondness looked to be inching
toward too long, and bit jagged with imminent shag, but nothing to worry about
– for today. Note to self:
schedule time for a trim, then a shampoo and repeat.
Skin looked clear, no
obviously pitted pores, no unnecessary roughness; but you – or more importantly
I – could never be too careful. Lepers
might only be on basic cable's 10
Commandments, but zits were the next best – I mean worst – thing. Second note to same self: while getting
my locks done, also get a peel.
Above the cheeks, below my
hairline, no red beyond the blues of my eyes. I heard that they could even bleach it out when it did
appear. It hadn't, but still it
might be worth asking about when I got clipped and slathered.
Was that ... well, not yellow,
not yet, but they weren't as pearly as they could be. So, another note, this time for my dentist to bright them
back up to their brilliant best. "Your
teeth say hello long before your voice does." GQ? Esquire? Men? Couldn't remember which – just that the
headline sounded too true not to be.
Piss, comb, brush, exfoliate,
deodorate – then back to the bedroom.
This time I knew it was Men,
because the July issue was still there on my nightstand, folded back to
"The Boys of Summer."
The second page of the spread on top, all Cape Cod dazzling blue-sky
backdrop, sand under his sandaled feet, the model all tightly gleaming youth.
Late – very late – sure, but I hadn't spent Saturday and Sunday shopping
to go out on Monday with what I'd been wearing on Friday. Diesel, Gap, Nordstrom, opened and tags
carefully cut off with the manicure scissors from the nightstand's drawer. Shirt, drawers, shirt, sandals, then my
closet door full-length reflection with a grin to the Mr. July who smiled back
at me. If my supervisor saw me
without my regulation black shirt and pants ... well, there are jobs and then
there are jobs, but looking good is better than anything.
Now it was time to get going –
or at least not to be so late. On
the way to the door a glance back to the white elegance of my Mac. Nope, no time to check my email. That was an option. What wasn't was the silver elegance of
my cell phone, which went in a "Boys of Summer" pocket.
The hall outside my apartment
door was cool, dark, and way too long: more like winter rather than the
cloudless summer I'd seen going to and coming back from work on Friday and
retailing on the weekend.
It only got darker and colder
after a trip down in the elevator.
Arms crossed, goose bumps not at all complementing my Boy of Summer
self, I walked past spaces, 112, 113 and then to 114, where my 115 Volkswagon
GTI sparkled.
Fishing out my keys, Dad was
there in my brain, brought up with the clinking metal echoing in the garage and
the smooth plastic in my hand. When
I told him about the make and model, he'd originally tisked and tutted,
vanishing for a few months into Consumer
Reports, only to finally emerge
during one of our monthly family phone calls to say that he thought it had
been" a good decision," his tone of voice clearly making his
agreement with something I'd done a too rare event.
Key going from fished out to
lock inserted, I thanked dad for his 'support' in my 'intelligent' and 'well
thought out' decision. Sliding
into the driver's seat, twisting my carefully gym-toned butt into the leather,
I adjusted the rearview, putting on my best Boy of Summer grin at how my
'intelligent' and 'well thought out' buy made me look so damned good.
Turn of key, spin of wheel,
back out and then forward and up the way-too-steep ramp, out of the cool
darkness of the garage and into a dazzling, blinking, summer morning: feeling
damned good, and looking even better.
* * * *
"Bet they'd even follow
us home," Buddy said once, talking about driving the same route over and
over again and how our cars could probably do it by themselves by this time. Shake things up by taking the bus home
and there they'd be in the garage when you got there, wounded expressions on
their chrome faces.
His car, maybe. Mine was a bit more absent-minded. Rather than letting it take me from my
apartment to work, I had to put it in the right lane, pay close attention to
the correct number of stoplights, and keep an eye out for the proper landmarks.
Martin Luther King Boulevard
was a wide and busy one. Waiting
in the left-hand turn lane to merge with it, I checked myself in the rearview,
noticing a stray lock of blond. Sighing
at the betrayal of yet another product recommendation, I managed to tame it
just before the green arrow popped up.
The road split in two, one
side staying MLK, the other the beginning of Main. It was a weird corner, a triangular oddball in the usual grid,
a marker obvious enough for my ditsy car to drive it without a thought in my
head.
So, what to do tonight?
I could go out, of course. Light dinner at the scene of the
season, or a casual diner at an acceptably tawdry eatery. From there a cruise down to a few of my
favorite spots to check out some batting eyes, bump some hips, and stroke some
chests all toward some possible early week play. So far my dance card had been nicely filled with a good
number of guys between the sheets, or even in the damp darkness between
buildings. A stud? Not really, certainly not like the one
I wanted to be. But I sure wasn't
a blushing, stammering, shoulder-rocking, eye-drooped wallflower.
There was always Buddy, of
course. Speaking of blushing,
stammering, shoulder-rocking, eye-drooped wallflowers. Buddy wasn't his real name, but that's
what he was to me, so that's what I called him. That's all he was
to me. But for a blushing,
stammering, shoulder-rocking, eye-drooped wallflower he was still kinda fun to
hang out with.
But so much for him (I
remembered): Buddy had some kind of temp gig that began at neon-switch-on-time
and ended too-damned-late, and he was stuck on it for the next few days. Setting up a new office for some kind
of mortgage company, I think. Poor
guy. My own employment definitely
sucked – sometimes with extreme determination – but at least I had from
neon-switch-on-time to too-damned-late to put it behind me.
Blink, blink, blink. Shit, did I miss the turn? Luck was a red light and a quick turn
left and then right, trying to get my bearings. Dirty-windowed Domino's on one side, McDonald's on the
other, across the intersection a Burger King. Ah, behind the Burger King was a familiar sign, meaning I
hadn't overshot. Passing the
Carpeteria, I gave it a friendly salute, the shoppers inside too focused on
either indoor or outdoor styles to notice.
Turning into the packing lot,
I winced at the time on the dash. Crap. Crud. Corruption. Way
beyond the "fifteen minutes of safety." I wasn't supposed to park in front, but I did anyway,
sliding the Volks into a no-man's-land space between the Blockbuster and the
Site For Sore Eyes.
Mumbling the Prayer of the
Late Employee – which went something like "please don't notice" or
"be in a good mood" – I jogged down the sidewalk. Before hitting the door, I sighed that
there were only two people behind the counter: Black Girl with Attitude, and
Hippie. Whew, no sign of a
supervisor, for which I thanked the slacker gods, promising I'd stay home and
tap the remote and gulp beer in praise of their intervention.
I got a "you're so lucky,
dude" expression from the Hippie, and a "fucking asshole" one
from BGWA. Coming around the
counter, I gave them both a quick nod – agreeing with both of them – punched
myself in, and grabbed my green apron.
Welcome to work. Burner of days, deliverer of money. Too much of one, not enough of the
other, but who was I to complain?
Dad, of course, thought I was
wasting my life. When it came up,
and it always did, I explained that it was a good gig – something that provided
regular bucks, and even pretty good health insurance. I sure as shit didn't want to do it for the rest of my life,
but it was an adequate enough situation while I weighed my various career
options. That my temporary
situation had so far gone on for three years and that my various career options
equaled a big, fat goose egg was also something that always seemed to come up
during our monthly spats ... I mean calls. Mom didn't seem to care one way or another, everything was
fine with her as long as I was happy.
I was here and they were
there, a chasm of more than a thousand or so cashed-in frequent flyer miles. I tried to imagine how their minds
worked: jobs were for life, sex was mostly secret and too often shameful,
America was the Greatest Country in the World, pants for men, skirts for girls,
and gay people should always be secret and always shameful. I tried, like I said, but I always had
a headache afterwards.
My life was good enough. I had people (beyond my 'not really a
boyfriend'), movies to see, magazines to read, clubs to club, shops to shop, a
gym to keep me tight and firm, vacations to plan, eateries to try, and an easy
enough job that kept it all going.
It wasn't a big life, extra shiny, well-padded, or splashed on
headlines, but then most people's weren't. Sure there were things I would liked to have changed, and
who knows? – maybe someday I'd
have that Porsche, that Architectural
Digest house with that House and Garden backyard, a
film career, a picture-perfect boyfriend who was also a picture perfect model,
but for now it was all average, ordinary, and agreeably satisfactory.
It was then that the place
began to hop, the second surging wave of sleepy-eyed commuters on their way to
their own life-enabling jobs pushing through the doors and wobbling toward the
counter.
Assuming the recommended
frozen smile, chipper tone, and plastic politeness I took the disliked position
of manning the register as an act of penance.
Saying "Welcome to
Starbucks," I began another day at work.
* * * *
Ding. "Thanks for stopping
by." Ding. "Have a nice day." Ding. "Thank goodness the weekend's almost here,
eh?" Ding. "Have a real nice day."
Ding. "Be excellent to
one another." Ding. "See you tomorrow." Ding. "Love the
sweater." Ding. "Have a damned nice day."
Ding. "Don't work too
hard, okay?" Ding. Ding. Ding.
The Volkswagon parked outside
might not be smart enough to get home on its own, but I was a real efficient
autopilot. Prop me up in front of
the register and the machine gets going, the numbers begin flashing, and the
drawer starts popping – and then the register revs up.
Briefcase in hand – who
carries those anymore? – was the
stiff and ironed Double Espresso. Handing
him his Tall, I imagined the cup as cardboard outside but a steaming hot jungle
with pounding native drums inside.
Caramel Macchiato was right
behind him. A schoolteacher type,
all mom and graying curls, she sipped her grande
with a look of religious ecstasy on her beginning-to-wrinkle apple face. Watching her moment of caffeinated
bliss, it was easy to see her bouncing off the playroom walls with her
terrible-two students – and then crashing along with them when it was nap time.
Next was Cinnamon Dolce Latte,
but not just a Cinnamon Dolce Latte – heaven forbid she'd only order a plain
and simple Cinnamon Dolce Latte. No,
she had to have it with this much cinnamon, that much Dolce, only the right
kind of espresso, with this measure of steam, a cup from the center of the
stack, a lid from a fresh box, and a wooden stirrer untouched by human hands. The joke goes that that the length of
an order is directly proportional to the amount of assholeness in the orderer. Ms. Cinnamon Dolce Latte was definitely
one, so long was the order, and so great her anus that I doubt she could sit
down for fear of it swallowing the chair.
Hands softly curled together,
head gently bowed, native-sewn skirt, peasant blouse, Tazo Green Tea
Frappuccino Blended Creme with Melon Syrup was ordered with a voice like temple
bells. Even though her order was
long, it was simple and spiritual.
Accepting her drink, she bowed ever-so-slightly before shuffling out the
door. Even though she ordered it
with a chiming voice, the order was still long – and she was still an asshole. Through the front window I saw her
climb behind the wheel of a mountainous SUV, dreamcatcher hanging from the rear
view mirror.
Then there was Just Coffee. God, not Just Coffee. The day is "special" when he
shows up. "Special"
meaning extra crappy. No Breakfast
Blend, no Brazilian Ipanema Bourbon, no Guatemala Antigua, no Gold Coast, no
Yukon – Just Coffee. Not in a tall, not in a grande, not in a venti. Just Coffee, in a medium cup.
Funny, he doesn't look insane. Every blue moon or so someone wanders
in, their eyes bright and clear with innocence, faces a moon glow of childish
delight, and orders a 'coffee' in a 'medium' cup. Innocent, childish, until my Hippie or BGWA Starbucks pal of
the week runs them through the laundry list of flavors, cup sizes, and all the
rest, with our plastic smiles on our plastic faces. But Just Coffee was different. No matter how many times we tried, he just never got it.
The worst of it was that the
day had ebbed, the commuters were on their way to their various destinations,
and the place was practically empty.
With only an audience of employees, he could (sigh) chat a bit more than
usual. "They're everywhere,
all around us–" he began, the words tumbling out of him loose and broken
up. In clean jeans, new-looking
tennis shoes, bright blue hoodie, cleanly clipped hair, freshly shaved cheeks,
he was a picture of Average Joe, not a loony who refused to order anything but
a Just Coffee in either a tall, grande, or venti cup – and who though that
aliens were everywhere.
* * * *
Just Coffee, after he finally
left, signaled the official eye of calm.
The storm of the morning gone, along with the cars in the parking lot – the
next not due until people swung in to grab a booster for the night. There was little to do but clean, play
around with the thermos mugs and CDs, or chill out in the store room while
'checking the inventory.'
So for an hour I grabbed some
supplies and scrubbed, dusted, swept, polished, wiped, deodorized, and
sanitized until the cream station, the displays, the floor, the restroom, the
windows, and the espresso machine gleamed, glittered, shined, shone, sparkled,
and reflected.
For another hour I arranged
the CDs by title, band, lead singer, height of hairstyle (where appropriate),
and eventually by degree of awfulness.
I sorted the thermos cups by height, color, popularity, and my own
'looking like a jerk while using' scale.
I organized the chocolate by color and pomposity. I classified teas by flavor, caffeine
strength, country of origin, and lastly by hipness.
The last hour, I tried to get
comfy in the storeroom, but gave up when the bags of beans, boxes of cups, and
cartons of lids just wouldn't cooperate in my quest for comfort.
Lunch came and went like the
regulating tick of our time clock.
1PM: exited, proceeded down sidewalk to corner. I had a wide range of choices,
eventually settling for KFC (love their desserts). 2PM: returned, entering to see that a rush hadn't rushed in
my absence, that the place was still spotless and still empty.
So I thought about Just
Coffee, and what Just Coffee had said about aliens.
Seriously.
* * * *
I've traveled ... some. No backpacking through the Andes, no
throat-singing on the steppes, no sailing the Caribbean – just a bit of Mexico,
a touch of Canada, a summer in Paris when I was in college. But the point is I've done it – just
not a lot of it.
But when I have, I've noticed
something odd about my foreign tourist self that's very different than my USA
residential self. Same guy, inside
and outside, even though the money in my pockets was a bunch of different
colors and the street signs made no sense.
Sure I like to be part of the
crowd, among my own people – whether they know what to do with a throw pillow,
sling Jamaican blend all day, dance the night away, keep on an eye on the
latest fashions, or can tell you what Celine Dion is up to – but take me away,
plop me down where they spit before shaking hands, put cloves of garlic under
their armpits, talk like they're clearing out a ton of phlegm, boil everything they eat (and a lot of things
they don't), or shriek like warbling banshees when they're happy (and even when
they aren't) and I change.
What happens is I suddenly want to hock a loogie before 'putting it
there,' stick an elephant's head in my pits, gargle my words, put everything in
a stewpot, or trill at the slightest provocation. Anything, you see, to fit in; to not be the tourist sticking
out like a sore ... well, whatever they stick out there. I want to blend. I need to blend. Blending becomes a very good thing to
do.
So it isn't hard to imagine
what it might be like to travel a bit further than the Rio Grande, Quebec, or
to get a shot in front of the Eiffel Tower. Stranger in a Strange
Land, right? Where did I hear
that? Anyway, there you are, away
from home, friends, the usual and comforting anything. So what if you have ... weird hands,
tentacles, bug eyes, slimy organs, weird heads, and all that kind of sci-fi
stuff? Wouldn't you want to be
anything but a tourist with a camera around your eight-foot neck, sandals on
your blue feet, zinc oxide on your elephant nose?
Of course you would. You wouldn't want to stand out – especially
if you've seen flicks like Independence
Day and Aliens. E.T. might have had a nice visit if he looked
like one of us, right?
But cruising the mean streets
of Mexico City, I might have wanted to vanish into the brown-skinned crowd. Meandering the avenues of Toronto, I
definitely would have been happier knowing when to say – or not say – "eh."
Skipping down the boulevards of the City of Lights I absolutely wanted to
understand why Jerry Lewis wasn't known as a complete and total asshole. But wanting to and being able to were
at least a thousand miles apart. Sure,
I could have practiced my Spanish, tried to love syrup, and puzzled out the
genius in The Lady's Man, but I'd
never be able to really blend in. I'd
be the gringo who ordered cerveso
rather than cerveza and got a bowl of
baby shoes instead of a beer; the tourist from down south who cheered for this
guy rather than that guy and got a fist to the face instead of a clap on the
back; the Ugly American who ordered French Fries instead of ... whatever they
call them.
So what would I do? What would a spaceman do? The same, I bet. He'd look around at what everyone else
was doing, and try to do what they were doing, look the way they looked, smell
the way they smelled, and sound like their voices. He couldn't make up a new person; he'd just copy what
everyone else was. I couldn't do
it well, but I bet someone who could go from Mars to here could.
So I think Just Coffee might
have been on to something. Nuts,
sure. Freaky, absolutely. But he had something there. They wouldn't want to stand out – so
they'd look like you or me, or that guy over there, or that girl, that old guy,
so forth and so on.
The late day surge rushed in
and rushed out, forcing my mind back to mochas, espressos, lattes, chais,
macchiatos, americanos, cafe au laits, and frappucinos rather than on the
business woman, the surfer dude, the yuppie, the Gen X'er, the Baby Boomer, the
fossil, or any of the others I took an order from, made cash for, and handed
drinks to. I had no time to think
about what they looked like on the outside, or what might be on the inside.
On a side note, as someone who
works in the food industry, that's exactly the concern they should have about
the drinks they were walking out with.
As the rush trickled down to
just a stream of lead-eyed coffee buyers, and night began to turn neon and
fluorescent lights inside the store – and I only had an hour and a half of both
left before I could escape – and out along the mini-mall, I began to look at
the dribs and drabs that stumbled in and buzzed out. Him? Her? Them? I never really thought about UFOs and stuff but ... well,
could that many people be wrong? Even
if they had crooked teeth and no indoor plumbing there was just too many of
them. Sure, scientists were smart,
but did they really know everything?
Who was to say that aliens weren't
out there?
At one hour to Getting the
Hell Out, I asked my Hippie co-worker about what had been percolating in my
mind.
"Aliens?" he said,
rearranging pastries in the case, the scorn in his high-pitched, mouse-squeaky
voice coming clearly through the thick glass. "Yeah, right, man."
"Just think about it for
a second," I tried, carefully outlining my theories, laying out my
well-thought-out logic. Never, of
course, mentioning that Just Coffee was my inspiration.
Out from the case with a
toffee almond bar in his tongs, he looked at it to see if it was too stale to
sell, then at me to see if I was too nuts to engage. The toffee almond bar went in the trash, a too-loud noise in
the empty shop, and to me he said: "Get real, man. Aliens. What a fucking crock."
At half an hour to Getting the
Hell Out, I asked the Black Girl with Attitude about what I'd been pondering. She told me I was crazy and to fuck
off.
Then it was time to leave. Hippie drew the short straw, so he had
to close up. The BGWA and I could
get out a bit early. Leaving our
aprons behind, I could tell she was just itching, positively burning, to get
the hell away from me, so I did her a favor and snuck out a bit early so as not
to be anywhere near her.
Time for the drive home, time
to honor the slacker gods with my ass on the couch, a remote in one hand, a
beer in the other. No time for
aliens.
But "Hey, hey, hey,"
came a familiar voice nearby. Twisting
from the beeline to my car and Getting the Hell Out I looked for who said
it-and looked right into the bright-eyed faced of Just Coffee.
"Eh, hello," I said,
quickly trying to think of a way to escape. Sick mother? Urgent
appointment? Had to beat traffic? Favorite show to catch? Not feeling well? Too many options jammed up my head,
gummed up my mouth.
"Won't keep ya," he
said. "Just wanted to thank
you is all. No one says that
enough, do they? Must be something
really fucking wrong with this world.
Screwed up, it is. Anyway
... just wanted to say it."
"No – no problem," I
sputtered, at least having the brain cells to jingle my keys.
"It's just it takes a
real nice person, a great guy, to take time with someone like me – a person
they don't even know. Just
deserves thanks, it does. So I'm
saying it."
"No problem at all."
Now, I really must be going ... was what I was about to say.
"If it wasn't for you ...
well, I bet a lot of folks would think I was stupid, or crazy, or maybe a bit
of both. Right, right,
right?"
"Never!" I protested. Well,
yeah, was what I wanted to say.
"Anyway – don't want to
start running off at the mouth again.
Saw you and just wanted to say 'thanks.' Because of you I'll never make
an idiot of myself again by ordering 'Just Coffee.' Now I know to say 'Coffee
of the day in a tall, grande, or venti cup.'''
Then he ... well, I couldn't
call him 'Just Coffee' anymore, could I?
... left, turning around and walking off, looking back one last time
with a light and cheery wave of his hand.
Being complimented can be
nice, being complimented can make your day, being complimented can give you a
warm feeling inside. But being
complimented can also be bad, being complimented can ruin your day, being
complimented can give you goose bumps when the compliment is for something you
didn't do, but for what another person did. A person else who sounded like you, looked like you, acted
like you.
Yeah, he was crazy, even
though he didn't look it. Positively
nuts, even though he'd gotten me thinking. For sure bonkers, even though he acted like a normal human
being.
I got in my car, slid the key
in the ignition, but didn't turn it.
Instead, I adjusted my rear-view mirror, seeing in the reflection the
glare of nighttime traffic, the bright colors of mini-mall signs-and my own
eyes.
And thought about coffee,
three sizes of cups, and someone else sitting behind the wheel of another car,
key in the ignition, looking at the bright spots of rushing headlights, the
glow of advertising – another pair of blue eyes, very much like mine.
