Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Rhymes

t’s cold in the cafe, but when I look at the couple in question I imagine their bulky parkas and sports-team sweatshirts are all-season wear, the kind of ratty uniforms that draw judgmental stares from fellow bus riders on humid July afternoons.  I’m guilty of judging, but it’s not their clothes that catch my attention—it’s a loopy, repetitive rhyming game.

Him: “Stitch.”
Her: “Bait and switch.”
Him: “Tear at the stitch.”
Her: “Stitch?”
Him: “I said ‘tear at the stitch.’”
Her: “How about ‘bait and switch?”

And so on, endlessly, moving from rhyme to rhyme without discernible meaning.  A scrap of paper is involved, and I wonder if it’s Mad Libs or poetry or insane manifesto.  Perhaps I am too hasty to judge.

The rhyming game reaches its end.  No winner is declared.  As the couple leaves, they debate leaving their pile of food garbage on their table for the waitress to clean.  “She gave me a fuckin’ attitude,” the woman says.  Her man didn’t notice.  It’s decided: waitress will just have to deal with the mess.  They attempt to leave through the emergency exit—once, twice, thrice, fourth time’s a char… nope, door still won’t open. Embarrassment. Frustration. The normal, for-chumps exit is utilized.  From the sidewalk this woman flips the whole cafe off, and me in it.  I am delighted and offended.

I love this moment, and I want to record it.  I remember I have a blog, and briefly consider the implications of sharing something so slight in such a public forum.  Then I tell myself that the internet exists, in part, to archive memories.  I spend a lot of time obsessing about how this site might read to a stranger.  I get caught up in presentation, professionalism, and polished honesty.  This seems less useful, even in the short-term, than using the internet for what it is, right now: an infinite conversation.

I commit to writing more in the present, without knowing exactly what that means.