hurts

I exit the train and see the bus waiting there. I, along with a few others, rush to step on before it leaves the stop. The wait for the next one is almost a half hour and unreliable.

I ignore most of the passengers—it’s busier than usual—and make my way toward the back. The National blares in my ears, drowning out much of the conversation around me, but I catch bits of the conversation next to me, between the man across and the man directly to my right.

The man across, dressed in a brown button-up shirt with short sleeves and matching slacks, talks loudly about his having to ride the train and bus back to his home. His son can’t pick him up because he works tomorrow. He’s as dumbfounded at his son’s explanation as I am.

He wears a gray cap, a beret with a bill facing forward, that sits high on his head and a fake silver watch. He holds a pair of cheap sunglasses in his hand. His hair is straggly and graying, the hat turned up enough to see a receding hairline. His eyes are glossy, almost distant. He looks drunk.

The man next to me, in an a-shirt and jean shorts, laughs boisterously and responds at a similar volume. He says Brown Shirt’s son should know what’s what. He laughs that Brown Shirt is left on the bus while his wife is home and his son uses his car.

I reach down and pause my music. I see Jean Shorts is wearing white Adidas sneakers with green detail. Even without the music, leaving my headphones on, I can’t understand much of the conversation.

“... Can’t file section eight with bad credit.”
“How long’s your son been working?”
“About four years —”
“That’s your credit right there...”

“...That’s what they say though, love hurts. Right?”
“Boy, don’t they! Sure does.”

Both men laugh as the woman says something. They start talking quickly, overlapping their words so I can’t understand either. Then the woman says something about priorities.

“When your wife says ‘priorities,’ what does she mean?” Brown Shirt asks.
“Love hurts,” replies Jean Shorts.
Brown Shirt looks up, a confused look on his face. He pauses a second and then smiles broadly. “Love hurts is right. I don’t know what it means neither, but you go to your first point. Love hurts.”

I reach back and pull the cord as the bus pulls within a couple blocks. Their conversation continues with Jean Shorts repeating “love hurts” incessantly. I put my book into my backpack and discreetly resume the music.

The bus slows. I stand and step out the side doors. My mind floods. What was just going on? Neither knew definitively what priorities were or how a phrase like “get your priorities” straight should be used. They were talking over one another without understanding. They both laughed enthusiastically when they thought they should, not knowing what either was saying.

satisfied

I enter the conference room and make my way to the far corner. I set my notepad down and walk back toward the door where the line is already ten people long. More are immediately behind me.

The line moves past the table, each person gazing over the food choices. They talk amongst themselves, about what they’ll eat, what looks good and what they’ll avoid. “I would but—,” “I wish I could...” and “those look great, but I probably shouldn’t,” drift about in different voices.

I follow slowly, grabbing bits and pieces and trying to will my paper plate to be as sturdy as plastic. There are a few different things that look enticing, but I don’t know what they are. There are bagels, danish, yogurt and egg McMuffins.

The conversation turns to the edibles’ origins. “Who made that?” “That has to taste good, did Jim bring those?” “Phil, or Phil’s wife, made those. They’re amazing, try one.” “Dan brought the McMuffins. That’s soo funny.”

My plate is full before I pack all onto it that I would like. I go along the outside of the tables, avoiding the rest of the line. I sit, place a paper napkin on my lap and pick up my fork to dive into the assorted breakfast goods.

“Not hungry?”
“No, well, I am and it all looks delicious, but I’ll stick with water and fruit...”

...“You should try this casserole.”
“I would, but I was on vacation, eating whatever I wanted, for the last couple weeks. I’m back on track.”
“Oh, I see. It’s good, though, and there may be some left over for lunch...”

“...Greg’s wife made that. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve heard it’s delicious.”
“Thanks, it looked as much.”

Some sit with the spaces in front of them defiantly empty. They look over notes and converse with those next to them. Their eyes dart to the plates of others.

The meeting begins and conversation quiets. Office matters are discussed and updates are given. I finish what’s on my plate, half a bagel, a slice of quiche, an egg McMuffin and a slice of something that tastes like grilled cheese with egg and ham.

Just over a half-hour later, the meeting is dismissed. The room stands and collectively walks out the closest exit. Except for those, like me, who move back toward the table of food.

I dump my used napkin and the scattered crumbs into the trash before putting two more slices of the grilled breakfast sandwich, another two-thirds of a bagel and some cream cheese onto my plate. The office mothers—those that clean up after and maintain the community areas—move in to bring the food from the conference room into the kitchen.

“I’m so stuffed...”

“...Those slices of casserole were delicious.”
“Have some more, there’s plenty left. I left it next to the McMuffins.”
“Oh, I’m just too full.”

Within two hours, the entire kitchen is clear. Small portions are in the refrigerator. Considering those avoiding, ignoring or too full to partake in the food stuffs, I can only assume the rest has gone missing.

atmosphere

I’m driving along with Girlfriend in the passenger seat and a girlfriend in the back. The heat is finally dissipating, the air rushing in the windows. The conversation darts between the crowds of the morning and the games at the house we just left and the people there.

On the right, next to a sedan parked on the side of the road, are two men that look familiar. From a couple blocks away, I can’t place them. My eyes shift to the road.

The girls laugh, but I’m not listening. We cross another intersection and, like the snap of a finger, I remember who the two men are. I turn and look over at them. We’re within a few yards and my surprise catches up to me.

Before I can stop myself, I let out a surprisingly loud, “wha-?” Sean, known as Slug, looks over at me. He’s wearing sunglasses. He might be staring right at me. I’m instantly embarrassed. How many times has something like this happened to him?

Just last weekend I spent an entire day in the sun waiting to see them live for the first time. Seeing Slug and Ant idling with cigarettes alongside some cars gives me an odd sensation. They’re not as famous as they should be, but I’m starstruck.

My head floods with ideas and questions and imaginings while I drove farther down. I should turn, rush back there and get a picture with the two of them. I could tell them how much I enjoyed the show the week before. I would look like an idiot.

Do they typically have people rushing up to them asking for pictures? There was no one within a few blocks. Were they over at a friend’s and happened outside just now or were they sitting along the street about to head down toward the crowds we just left?

I see myself jogging up to the two of them, trying not to be out of breath asking them to take a picture with me. I see the excitement in the eyes of the girlfriend in the backseat and, to a lesser extent, Girlfriend in the front. I hear myself telling the roommates that I met them and posting the pictures online. I’d talk to them for a few minutes and shoot the shit.

I could just drive around the block. I could tell the girls that I had to stop, had to take the picture and they would have to deal with it. I was already a couple miles down the road. They wouldn’t still be outside.

The roommates say Slug comes by the coffee shop closest near the house on occasion. Maybe I’ll see him there and can ask how big his laugh was at a small silver car with a strange driver. He wouldn’t remember.

I’ve been listening to them since freshman year. A friend in my hall of the dorms turned me onto them. Seeing them live was one of the highlights of a summer that only started a couple weeks ago.

I imagine this is how someone who reads People magazine would feel after being flashed by Paris Hilton exiting a limousine. Then, all at once, the urge to meet themrecedes like a tide. We cross the river and I laugh to myself.

What if Slug heard my exclamation and did see me gawking as I passed? Maybe he turned to Ant and laughed a little. Maybe that sort of thing happens so often he never broke his conversational stride.

It doesn’t matter. I pull up to the house and as the girls make their way up to the house I replay my ridiculous reaction. They’re regionally famous and proud locals. Seeing them isn’t a big deal. Hundreds of people have done the same before me.

But maybe I should have had the balls to take that snap while I had the chance. If only to be that idiot. Instead of the one that yelps in near-shock at the sight of two guys enjoying cigarettes on the empty sidewalk of a busy street.