Our Neighbor Jim

Jim moved in to the neighborhood in the year 2005 with his frail, old mother.

Jim's mother passed shortly thereafter.

Jim was left to the four-bedroom house all alone.

Jim has never been married.

Jim is in his late sixties now.

Jim likes pianos--player pianos, that is.

Jim bought multiple player pianos of all different ages and sizes and makes.

Jim filled the house with these pianos.

Jim listens to these pianos play ragtime tunes every day.

Jim believes rock music is absolutely horrible.

Jim thinks rap and hip hop is even more dreadful.

Jim has a lot of time to dwell on things he hates.

Jim sits by his front window for most of his day.

Jim prides himself on being a major contributor to the "Neighborhood Watch" program.

Jim has four cars--two in the garage, and two in his driveway.

Jim habitually moves these cars out of the garage and driveway and parks them momentarily in the street.

Jim finds routine in this daily task.

Jim takes his sedan out and makes up a reason to drive to the nearest city.

Jim gets out of the house this way.

Jim eagerly waits for five o' clock p.m. so that he can stand in his front yard and hand-water his lawn.

Jim waves down passersby as they stroll past his street address painted on his curb.

Jim enjoys making his opinions known to his neighbors.

Jim watches the news on channel 7 and likes to start conversations by saying, "Did you hear about . . ."

Jim dyes his graying hair jet black, almost purple (but I don't think he knows it).

Jim sometimes rides his bike, a shiny, red cruiser.

Jim rides his bike to the mailbox nearly 50 feet from his home.

Jim places the mail in a basket fixed onto the bike.

Jim enjoys being snoopy on his bike and subtly peering into other's lives as he pedals.

Jim hates his young next door neighbors.

Everybody in McDonald's Drive-thru Lane is Dissatisfied.

A flying beetle frantically runs into a florescent light located in a dark, dingy McDonald's parking lot and plummets to the black top, backside down.

Nobody in the drive-thru lane has any idea.

The beetle whirs and kicks its tiny limbs, shuffling about, circling, struggling to regain an upright position.

It takes a beat, a breath. Its shadow dances slowly.

Nobody in the drive-thru lane has any idea.

It flails around some more and, still, cannot seem to find its way back on its legs, back in the air.

The car at the front of the drive-thru line moves on and the rest of the cars proceed forward. A man complains about a petty order issue--some kind of coupon or receipt thing--and demands to see the manager. The woman in the car behind his grumbles about the man complaining and says, "GOD! Hurry up!" The group of teenagers in the car behind hers are taking "so damn long to order," according to the middle-aged couple in the car behind the teens.

Everybody in McDonald's drive-thru lane is dissatisfied.

And a flying beetle can't get off its back.

Pooping with Indiana Jones

INDIANA JONES!  Of course he'd boorishly barge through the door while I sat with the porcelain princess. Of course Indy would with his big, lumbering boots slapping the wet tiles of the restroom floor. I can tell it is him right from this tiny stall, without even seeing his face. You know how? The door slammed the wall and I saw some drywall particles crumble to the floor. I swear, you can tell a lot about a guy by merely observing the way he opens a door. Let me give you a few examples:

The well-rounded door opener: 

This man doesn't just bump into the door with his body and slither through. He firmly, and precisely, with control, pushes forward and, with hand on door, checks behind him to make sure there are no others who might also need to enter the room. After a thorough check, he enters and makes certain the door does not slam shut behind him. This man usually has a wife and kids. 

The jerky, jackass door opener:

This man usually kicks the door open with his foot, swiftly enters and, if somebody is following behind, allows the door to slam upon them. Oftentimes a muffled, quick jab of an apology like, "Oh, sorry, dude" is called back to the victim of the jackassy door opener. This dude usually drives a car he cannot afford. He might also be wearing sunglasses indoors.

The lackadaisical slug door opener: 

This man, unlike the well-rounded door opener, slowly thrusts his weight upon the door and slips through expelling as little energy as possible. More times than not, he will purposely wait for a well-rounded man to open the door for him as to not use unnecessary energy. This guy usually works for a boss he hates. Ice cream is his good friend.

So, you get what I am talking about now. I'd say Indiana Jones falls somewhere in the jerky jackass category of door openers, as I am sure you already assumed. Oh, hold on--I almost forgot--my Indiana Jones is not Harrison Ford. I just call this one kid "Indiana Jones" because he wears accessories that I feel the true Indy might wear such as a weathered, brown fedora hat, random holsters with who knows what in them, and a greenish hemp bag around his shoulder. I had the fine pleasure of meeting this chump in a drawing course. He drew anime dragons while the rest of drew live models or still life displays. Yep, that's Indy.

He has no idea I am in here right now in MY stall, in MY restroom! Yes, that's right. I choose my restrooms carefully and claim them. It's part of my routine as I get accustomed to a new environment such as a school campus or work place. Restroom location and quality is one of my highest priorities.  In this case, it is my school campus. Pooping is a big deal. On the first day I toured this campus I took a stroll around and found a restroom that met my rigid standards. I find that on most campuses there are a few restrooms that are uniquely hidden and glorious. Nobody knows about them. They are infrequently visited and consequently immaculate. I find them. Pooping is a pleasure in these wonderful, little safe havens. And nobody likes to hear the sounds of other people pooping right next to them, so the more isolated, the better. I had discovered my restroom between two funny walls around a weird corner with a fire exit nobody turns to. It has been perfect until just now. Now, of all people, Indy is in here, jingling metal chains and accessories off his body, violently shuffling through the room. And I--I am stuck sitting here waiting for his departure. 

Generational Gaps

His grandma bought him the Encyclopedia Britannica for his ninth birthday after she found out that his grades were slipping.  That's a very "grandma" thing to do. 

The 15th edition. 32 volumes.

He also got a set of Hot Wheels toy cars, and those plastic, orange tracks you could link together to make all sorts of loops and bends and dips. 

He sat in his room and stacked up volume after stiff-spined volume on top of each other and laid out complex Hot Wheels tracks over the Britannica. The die-cast toys sped over "Volume 8: Menage-Ottawa" and ended up curving around a loop to "Volume 29: United-Zoroastrianism."

Smart kid.

Beneath the Fold

I have a habit of folding a piece of paper after I am done writing or doodling on it. When I am lazy, and my room is messy, I will usually let it fall behind my desk or under my bed, or behind the bookshelf. Sometimes, I will throw these notes in my backpack, and they will settle near the bottom and turn yellow, stiff. Finding these folded pieces of paper later is fun, though. I find it very difficult to throw away an old, folded piece of paper without first peeling apart the crease and exposing the note inside. There is something so much more intriguing about the hidden message. Usually I'll open it up and it will be an old homework assignment or reminder, maybe a small sketch, but sometimes I write some random things that really bring me back to a moment I would have otherwise forgotten completely. I like coming across these folded memories. 

I think there are a lot of things that aren't paper that are folded and need to be opened. People are often folded up. You come across them and you can toss 'em aside like an old, yellowed piece of garbage, or you can take the time to uncover a message you might have missed. Sometimes I think I like to fold myself up, and let one or two people uncover things as they find me floating along. I also like to unfold other people. I find a folded piece of paper much more intriguing than a bold billboard. You know what you are going to get from a mile away with the billboard! I like that unexpected treasure in the small fold. I like the unexpected, great or small.

You Ewe

Hey, ewe.

I like you, ewe.

You stand like a ewe should stand.

You eat like a ewe should eat.

You look like a ewe should look.

Good ewe.

You ewe.

Stay ewe.

Hermitage

When I crawl into this familiar blanket, night after night, and tuck it between these bony knees, it falls into place. It creases along and caresses my form. It translates and adapts to hands folded in a lap. It warms these numb toes, loosens stiff bones. It breathes when I breathe, shifts when I shift, and doesn't leave when I leave. And, snug and protected, I curl my hidden limbs and bury my head deep into the bosom of great nature's second course, sweet sleep.