I ran out of gas. Shit, no, not literally. Well, maybe literarily. Not in the car. The red Mitsubitchy 3000GT is again in the shop. And Stacey got a rental. It's got this display: "288 miles to E," when I picked it up at the rental place. So, when I got down to "7 miles to E," I stopped for gas -- kind of fool-proof (What is the origin of that word?). There's nothing like being reminded of my shortcomings every time I get in the fucking car.
But as I was saying, I ran out of gas writing. I think it stems from what is going on here with surgeries and rehab and all that. Last night, I went to a meeting of crazy people, a self-help group, that I have been attending for a while. It's an interesting group; and I do find it helpful.
Someone new to the group filtered in off the street. Her gravel voice betrayed her as an inveterate smoker. And her shock of blond hair didn't contribute as much as she desired to the deception she was attempting to perpetrate on the public about her age. And the little noises she made from time-to-time, like she was agreeing with the speaker, even when nobody in the room was speaking, gave us some idea that there was another voice with which she was conversing.
I noticed something strange when I glanced in her direction. Looking kind of past the guy sitting next to me, I could see her in profile. His nose eclipsed what jewelry she wore on her earlobe, but her right ear, at the top, rather than being smooth and rounded, had a little point, almost like being squared off. Maybe that wasn't so strange, but her right eyebrow was black, drawn on her forehead at a 45 degree angle. She looked rather like a bleached blond T'Pao, with eye make-up and an exaggerated brow.
About a half hour later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lean toward the table at which we were seated. She reached into her bag and took out a pair of sunglasses, bluish in color and they wrapped around. To complete the look, I guess.
Posted by Bill at April 12, 2005 08:10 PM