Hi, Shirley. Could you check and see if Dr. Solomon can move my dental cleaning to next week? I came across two baby squirrels as I was walking to my car—the early-morning sunlight hitting my face—that must have fallen out of a tree during yesterday’s windstorm. One seems O.K. The other is quite listless, and I think it’s best that I stay here cradling them both against my chest. That’s pretty much all I’m capable of doing right now, in this moment of soft connectivity to a fragile world. I can say with assurance that I don’t have the emotional resilience to have my gums poked at, so, if you could reschedule the appointment, that’d be great.
Jorge, I’m going to stop you right there. I think you’re really nice—you’re quick to smile, and it seems like Ally got this match right. But, when I was in the rest room, I realized that I’m exactly the same age my dad was when he died, and it’s not that I’m not proud of all I’ve done—I am!—it’s just that life is so fleeting, and any of us could be gone in a moment, especially if we smoke, and eat too much mayonnaise, so I’m going to have to take a walk along the river and stare at the horizon. But, call me later, I’d love to do this again! I’ll leave a twenty for my crème brûlée. You can take what’s left home.
Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, sorry, sorry—I just have to squeeze past you. I figured out where this movie was going five minutes ago and there are a hundred and six minutes left (I looked it up) so I’m gonna leave. Maybe I’ll sit on a bench at the bus station and watch the human tapestry unfurl itself. I’m sorry that I stepped on your souvenir popcorn bucket—take mine.
Please, you go ahead. I can’t decide between an Americano or an espresso—I think it’s because, several hours ago, I missed a step on the stairs when I heard my train coming, and I caught myself on the bannister, but the frantic rush of anxiety and loss of control is still coursing through my veins, since, as a robust person who derives much of my pleasure in life from moving freely, the vision of breaking my bones really made me think about what would happen if my simplest joys were suddenly ripped away. Also, when I grabbed the handrail, I touched someone’s gum, so, you know what? I deserve a treat. I’ll have a chai latte.
It’s your seat, ma’am! Take the seat, please—your bags look heavy and I’m still thinking about another baby squirrel I found, this time dead, on the sidewalk this morning and the arrogance of believing that we have control over our destinies or the machinations of a hard, unfeeling world. Actually, I am gonna sit, thank you. I’ve had a day—Oops, never mind, that guy took it.
Hey, pals, we’re all getting a little heated in this political discussion. So let me ask: Have you ever picked up a tomato and held it in your hand for six minutes and thought about its origins—from seed, to soil, to a farmer’s calloused hands, to a truck, to a store, to a shopping bag, and then a car and restaurant, to this exquisite gazpacho, all within just a short period of time? Pretty wild. If you don’t like tomatoes, try it with cheese.
I’m sorry, guys. I’ve gotta cancel on our plans tonight. You can give my ticket to someone who didn’t make eye contact with a pigeon and feel super judged for the decadent, indoor-human life I lead. ♦
