Semi-Daily Scribbles

It wasn't the healthiest pastime to cultivate, but Mary developed an obsessive infatuation with the driver of the #63 she rode every day to work. The bus driver's name was Frank Reynolds, and he grew orchids in a hothouse he built in his backyard. She overheard Frank telling Mrs. Magnano all about it one morning. Mary thought Frank was very handsome with his mahogany skin and dark, deep-set eyes that crinkled at the outer corners when he smiled. Frank smiled a lot, which Mary made note of in her diary. She developed a smile ranking system that categorized and rated Frank's grin as he greeted boarding passengers. For example, when a pack of teenagers bounded up the steps to flash their passes, Frank nodded his bald pate and drew his lips together in a tight line that formed parentheses-like creases on either side of his mouth. This smile was labeled "Attentive Recognition" and earned a rating of two out of five stars. "Attentive Recognition" was not a bad, poorly executed smile. It was a perfectly acceptable facial expression. However, it was exactly the sort of benign greeting that would leave Mary feeling crestfallen for the rest of the day. She'd been on the receiving end of "Attentive Recognition" nine times already this month. Last month, it appeared a total of five times. Mary's favorite Frank smile was the five-star "Back to Base," a dazzling display of impossibly white teeth, dimpled cheeks, and plenty of eye crinkle. Mary could have sworn Frank favored her with the "Back to Base" last Tuesday, but Mary knew deep down she was simply in the right place at the right time as Mrs. Magnano wheeled her chair onto the hydraulic lift.

The wall follows me everywhere. I pretend it isn't there, but the startled looks are a dead giveaway. That is, if anyone notices me at all. My voice never carries over the invisible barrier, no matter how loudly I speak. At most, people are aware of my presence by a minty breeze that comes out of nowhere and tickles their nose. I am yelling up a storm when those little moments of contact come and go. All the while, not one word of my opinion or insight makes it past the divide. If an idea gains momentum and looks as though it will make it over the top and land safely on the other side, a spike will protrude beyond the wall's surface to puncture and shred any hope of getting my point across. It goes like this day in and day out. I've become quite used to the sound of my own voice. Voices, actually. Since I am separated from community and fellowship, I must answer my own questions in whatever tongue my cursed spirit deems best.

Marti needed a boost. An infusion. A lift of the spirits only a one-way ticket out of Concrete could provide. At some point over the last seven years, Marti realized her life transformed into a series of false starts and messy endings. She'd let go of the reins as she grabbed at one brass ring after another, and the horse Marti rode took control. The stubborn nag went wherever she pleased, which more often than not was the nearest watering hole. To make matters worse, Marti's charms migrated in a southerly direction. She no longer counted on firmness and curves to improve her odds. Even Marti's shapely legs turned thick and laced with veins. Marti drifted further and further away from the winner's circle. She needed a transfusion. An excision. Laser salvation and plastic relief. Confidence was all Marti needed to get back on top. She knew youth had bolted and left her standing at the gate, but money could keep her in the running with all the fresh and ready competition.

Every afternoon, Gary reserved time to practice his speaking skills. Ideas slammed into each other all day long in his head. He certainly did not lack material. Gary found it difficult to select just the right words to convey what was so crystal clear in his mind. Long pauses and frustrated grunts were as far as he ever got to articulating his opinions. Gary's thoughts travelled in orbital patterns. Conversations sounded like Row, Row, Row Your Boat, sung in the round, ad infinitum. He made it a top priority to learn how to utter more than a single syllable when talking to human beings. Gary was going to need help in the near future. He was planning a trip to San Diego, and he knew he'd never get there if he couldn't master the art of asking. More specifically, asking one particular sweat-inducing, stomach-churning question of someone whom Gary had never met.

Clara looked high and low, in rose gardens and graveyards, for the wisdom to pass up the sure thing. The shiny ring. The well-trod walk down a darkened aisle. Clara excelled at self-censure, and came ever so close to the abandonment of her dreams. Dreams were things Clara's mother packed up with her trousseau. Clara was told by the womenfolk to expect day after day of toil and strife. Two of the best ways to get one's name written down in the good book. Several little inconveniences was all it took, and Clara would sprout her own twig off the family log. She flew away from the assigned perch and left thorny relations to carry on without her. Clara looked high and low, in train stations and tramp steamers, for the life she intended to find.

I've been here before. The flashes of recognition in one's turn of phrase. The way the light beguiles when it washes over the porch. These are parlor games played by the ghosts who call my spirit home. Runoff and remnants produced by one too many times time and time again. Sediment and sentiment. A hillock rises in the spot where the idea was born. I speak the thought that forces its way past the barrier.

I cannot be forgotten!