another day in the life

 

I’m sitting in my car in a hot parking lot in the middle of a perfectly organized day. It’s all about the lists. No time to waste.

I’m thinking about what’s next when I see Doug. I’ll call him that because he’s short, a bit robust, neat, clean-cut.

No, I’m not stalking some cool guy. He’s middle-aged, preppy, 3-button polo tucked into striped shorts, a belt. Hair slicked back, dark, a bit gray.

Maybe he’s an engineer, conservative, respectable, the kind of guy who knows where he’s going and knows how to get there. He’s got money. He’s parking his classy Lexus SUV.

Doug opens his door, angles out of the seat, can’t get the exit quite right. He’s wiggling, wrenching -- who makes these cars so high? – then, like tomato paste from a can, he plops out.

He quickly turns, shoves himself back in fetching, grasping -- ugh -- a coffee now in his hand. He slides out again -- plop.

Then he faintly shakes his head, puts his coffee on the roof, and stretches way across the passenger seat. He’s almost flexible but not quite, like al dente pasta along with the tomato paste.  

The stretch isn’t working, he’s flailing, flopping. He hoists himself higher, summer shorts flaring, feet dangling.

Got it! A tissue. He blows his nose, honk, tosses the tissue back in -- I hope he’s the one who finds it next -- closes the door. Something falls on the ground, his sunglasses. He picks them up, puts them on, strolls away. Turns back, grabs the coffee.

Success!

Wearing flip flops, he then trips on the tiny cement frame around an ailing tree. Shakes his head -- such a loser-- proudly lifts his chest, did anyone see?

Yea Doug -- you klutz -- me.

Then he shakes his head harder, turns back to the car, trips again -- damn flip flops, damn planter.

The coffee goes back on the roof, he fishes around in the car, a wallet!  Yes, good idea to take a wallet. Grabs the coffee, goes.

You go Doug! He stops.  

Now he’s feeling himself up and down, patting his pockets. He’s mumbling -- only me, it only happens to me. He opens the door, grabs the keys from the seat -- the keys! -- closes the door.  

He walks away shaking his head like he’s grating parmesan; I still have Italian on the brain. Come on Doug, must be lunchtime by now.

He gives the fob a beep. Beep! Then hits it again as he marches back to the car in short, hard strides. His lips are sucked in.

Doug, you clod, I thought you had it all together.

He pulls a bag from the car. Ah, a return, maybe given him by his wife.  Damn wife, why doesn’t she do her own errands.

Another beep, beep! another shake of parmesan, an expulsion of breath as his chest heaves and falls -- I’m such an idiot.

He passes me, finally. I take the smirk off my face and smile. He smiles back, a nice guy, but his lips are still moving -- only me, it only happens to me.

“Thank you Doug” I say to myself, “you made my day.” Nothing like a laugh at someone else’s expense. “Way to go Doug!”

Then we both continue our busy, well-organized lives, moving one precarious distance at a time away from home base.

I open my car door to get out -- plop -- and the whole rigmarole begins again.

September 8, 2019

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