The one where I write about me

The soft spoken waiter at The Pizzeria fills the napkin holder and pokes me in the shoulder. “You think too much.” I was probably doing that thing again where I phase out at the register and think about ideas and people and when I’m brought back to life, I realize I’ve been staring at a chicken roll for the past 10 minutes. (I have this idea for a movie but I’m not writing the actual thing yet. I did, some, but on paper, it looks like Confusion. Linearly, it makes no sense. Like the way I speak sometimes – stopping, starting, unfinished sentences. Better to figure out what I want to say. I mean HAVE you heard me when I’m trying to … say something with meaning/passion? When I’m trying to express need? All while shielding any vulnerability because… heh… WEAKNESS.

I’m writing a play, one act. Halfway through and with this, I’m more comfortable with the mental bouncing around and this is where I’ll play for now. Thursday night, I decided that Friday after work I’d hop on a train and escape. Coming back to this house and hysteria is painful. Miserable. Also, shame on me for feeling so miserable sometimes. Slap me.

Monday through Friday is theatrical distribution assistant (very cool) and Friday is phone girl at The Pizzeria (cool, but in a different way.) Both places keep me interconnected, I think. I got there at 10 30 and sat by the telephones .I wanted a whorehouse to go to afterwards or any kind of destination that didn’t mean coming home to my thoughts. (Not a horrible thing to come home to but you know.) Then I didn’t really want to go anywhere because of the cold and how my ipod wasn’t charged for a good train ride and… Theee Fact that I was going back on Saturday for two events. (I make up for lost time real well.)

Friday at The Pizzeria, though. 10 30 am and ready to cry. (WHY?) Ready to cry and cry because I knew it wasn’t something that would pass. So it’s kind of pointless. A stationary bike. So I’m there NOT doing that to avoid the forever-feeling-this-way of it all. Buck up. Draw. Write about your theory about people who yell “Boooo.” How minor inconveniences cause grown people to yell. How the expression scares me. How it sounds like a verbal deformity if we went as far as to personify it. Although when used sparingly is quite entertaining. “We don’t recycle here?” “Boooo!” “We’re out of Coke Zero?” “Boooo!”

Then A walked in singing Flight of the Concords songs and the laughing distracted me or gave me something new to be for a while. Us talking about writing projects and how some expressions are so overused in this language. “Awkward” “Random” <- All Whores. My boss walked over asking me if things were good. (Small talk, Me doing my thumbs-up and smile-face. Feelin’ good? Yep! Good. Awesome.) It’s the Sandra Bullock style of comic timing where you’re not sure if you should laugh at her or hug her. I miss our manager. He gets back from Egypt next week. I imagine everything he’s doing with the Sphinx in the background. (I can joke about Egypt ’cause it’s close.) Everything … with the Sphinx just there. We’re funny.

AK walks over with the last three delivery tickets I wrote out. This ticket says sixth floor and the bldg only has 5 floors. It’s a rooftop party. This place didn’t have the room number written on it. I said, Did you ever think of walking down the hall, screaming PIZZA!! And seeing who opens the door first? Laughs.

The cool, Russian body builder delivery guy calls me Armenian Pride. And his accent is so thick that when he speaks, I lean in and whisper, I don’t know what we’re talking about. The girl who was supposed to come in and help never came so A and I interwove cash register + phones. The room built up with so much smoke it started to look like … “Imagination.” I didn’t mind the extra work. But a lot of slamming down of phone after taking an order, yelling, AHHHH. I like when G comes in. He’s a fedex guy who can quote all my favorite guy-ish movies but can also discuss life. But sometimes he says things like “Eh you’re still young,” which I find unsettling. What does that mean? It’s like young age makes this whole feeling less “Killing yourself”-worthy. (joke) What happens when you’re NOT young and you’re still feeling this way? (God forbid, or at least Me-forbid.)? (Scary stuff.) That’s why I want crazy life to happen NOW while my hair still looks good. While my joints are still good. While I regret relatively FEW things.)

A sits on the freezer his feet touching the floor and knees still perpendicular from the ground. I’d like to be 6’5’’ for a day, but I’m alright. I take one last Sicilian pie order and manage to say “15 minutes” without choking on my own throat. I slip A the ticket, he’s on the phone now and ask him to order this for me. I run to the bathroom, shut the door behind me and wail. My back leaning on the door, the toilet paper is cold, but it cools off my eyes just fine. (It’s onlyweird if i happens every week. It doesn’t) I relax and walk back into the Smoke, get a diet coke and put in a straw – I never drink from soda cans with a straw. G gives me a dollar and change saying some customer said to tip the nice lady on the phone. (I’m either bothered or cold/hopeless, wavering back and forth.) Nice lady?

The queasy moment passed and we were back to talking about Deuce Bigalow and laughing. G loading boxes on his knees under the counter. Me kneeling with him, in my whispery, phony voice, “Hey, did you ever think it would come to all this?” Me buried in boxes. I made a funny. It’s good. I did my special handshakes and was alright.


One Response to “The one where I write about me”

  1. “You think too much, that is your problem. Clever people and grocers, they weigh everything.”

    “What work do you do”\?”

    “Listen to him. I got hands, feet, head. They do the jobs. Who the hell am I to choose”

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