In The Waiting Line
The Magic Man leaned in and whispered in my ear. “The man in line behind us is holding eight cans of whipped cream.”
I looked up from the magazine I was flipping through as we waited for our groceries to be rung up. “Yes, he is,” I said, putting the magazine away. I preferred the Weekly World News over Star anyway.
“What do you think they’re for?” the Magic Man asked in an even softer whisper.
I took another quick peek at the dude over my shoulder. Five-eight, medium build, cagey eyes. Nondescript in his black pants, white shirt, and scruffy red jacket. But it was 1am and he was buying eight cans of light whipped cream, so I was willing to believe there was more going on. “He’s going home to a wicked game of whipped cream Twister.”
The Magic Man frowned. “You think so?”
“Or else he’s having a banana split party. Or a Fourth of July whipped cream fight.”
“Whipped cream fight?” he repeated, sounding dubious.
“Like a water balloon fight, only you fill the balloons with whipped cream.” I pursed my lips. “That would be fun. I wonder if he’d invite me.”
My man shook his head. “He’s got eight cans of whipped cream. Whatever he’s doing has got to be more interesting than that.”
“I thought whipped cream Twister was pretty interesting.” I gave up any pretense of being inconspicuous and stared at the dude. “He looks furtive, like he’s got his hand in the cookie jar and he doesn’t want Mama to find out. I bet it involves sex.”
“You think everything involves sex.”
I shrugged. “I’m a romance author.”
“And it’s light whipped cream, not regular. Why?” The Magic Man’s eyes lit up in that way that always makes me nervous. “Can I ask him?”
“Can I stop you?” I sighed. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
He faced the dude, who was looking at us nervously by this point. “Excuse me.”
The dude’s eyes widened and he took a step back, glancing around as if scoping out escape routes. I was afraid he was going to pee his pants, he looked so startled, but he didn’t. Yes, I checked.
The Magic Man, focused on his burning curiosity, stepped closer to the guy. “What are you going to do with all that whipped cream?” my man asked pointblank.
The dude scuttled backwards. "I—er..."
Do you have a guess? Tell me what you think, and then I’ll tell you what the dude said to us. Go for it.
Waiting and Wishing
The banana suit (a classic) came out for the Bay to Breakers on Sunday. And because you guys asked for it...
Parisa¹: I got your message last night. My phone was dead, and I haven't listened to voicemail yet. So talk to me.
Me: I can't talk. I'm trying to write my blog.
Actually I haven't started writing it yet. I thought I knew what I was going to write, but now I'm "eh" on it.
Parisa: What were you going to write about?
Me: Well... first I was going to write about ponytails on men.
I mean, seriously—the only man alive who looks good in a ponytail is Johnny Depp. The rest are just imitations.
But to do a post on male-ponytails justice, I'd need candid photos, so that is a blog for another day.
Parisa: Um. Right.
Me: So I thought I could write about Stevie Wonder. It was his birthday last week too, you know. I've been wondering if he got cupcakes for his day like I did.
And I've discovered I quite like a lot of his songs. Like "Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours."
Parisa: But you're not going to write about him?
Me: No.
Parisa: Why not?
Me: *shrug* What would the moral of the story be?
Parisa: Good point.
Me: The Bay to Breakers race yesterday seemed like a good topic. It's the big race where people run wearing costumes. Or they run naked. I thought I could write about the naked man I saw crossing the finish line and how his dangly bits were shriveled from the cold.
Parisa: But you've wisely chosen a different topic, yes?
Me: Yes.
Parisa: What is it?
Me: Waiting.
Parisa: Waiting for what?
Me: Stuff. Life. Motivation. Whatever. Anything.
Parisa: Okay.
Me: It's just sometimes I forget that I'm living.
I mean, not that I think that I'm dead.
Parisa: Riiiiight.
Me: I find myself waiting to do something, for an assortment of reasons. Like time, or money, or opportunity.
But why wait?
I mean, if you want to participate in a flash mob, why not just organize it?
Parisa: This is about being in a flash mob?
Me: Partly. But it's a universal theme that applies to anything.
Parisa: So what's the moral of the story?
Me: Don't wait. Just do.
Parisa: Exactly.
Me: Thanks. You were a big help. <-- That was sarcastic.
Parisa: :)
¹ Transcripts from Google-chat. I may have taken a liberty or two with some of the content. Ahem.
La Misteriosa
He's late. Again.
Annoyed, she leans forward on her tiptoes. No man has ever dared to keep her waiting. No man until him.
She searches for him amongst the hordes of adorers at her feet. She sees Tomás, who pledged to bring her a finch for every kiss she bestowed on him. True to his word, he has one in a cage, at the ready. She wrinkles her nose. After two she decided they were too messy—the birds and his kisses.
There's Ramón with his notebook and pen, scribbling. As always. She would give him a fond smile if she weren't so peeved. Ramón and his sweet imagination, writing poetry to her beauty. A man of words, but not so much of action. And she definitely likes action.
Ah—dark, brooding Carlos, partially hidden in a corner, separate from the rest. He watches her with that gaze that used to make her shiver in anticipation. But that was all he did: watch, smoldering in her general direction.
In the center, there's José Christian, with his paintbrush and steady hand. She can tell that he paints another fileteado sign dedicated to her, like the one she stands over. She remembers one time when he used her body as the canvas. He still claims that was his masterpiece.
But of him for whom she waits? No sign.
She exhales, expelling her irritation. How many times has he kept her waiting? Three? Eleven? Twenty-seven? Once is too many. What will he bring this time to make up for his inattention? A trinket? A shiny bauble to dangle from her neck? She has plenty of things. What she wants is intangible and much more precious. Is he the one to give it to her?
She has doubts.
But still she waits, because the doubts are entwined with hope. And for hope, she can be patient—at least for a few moments longer.