Collapse Date Thursday, April 25, 2024 - 12:10 PM PST Topic Experiences I sat in the front seat of the Lincoln, legs crossed, with a cup of coffee in my hand. It was about 11 a.m. and we were parked in the back of the post office. It was me and my mother, dropping off a package, and now I was alone in the car, feeling the breeze blow on my face. The sun was clear and warm that day, and everything seemed fresh and surreal. A woman in a red minivan parked across the lane from me, and waddled out to the building. I felt very free then, as if the light and the coffee, the breeze and car, my bare feet and the cheap look I had that morning, and the waddling woman and red minivan where a soft new dream. It was all very fresh, very clear, and the freedom was mixed with security and comfort. I was so powerful, but so careless, so without worry, that if I could have stayed at the moment forever, in a post office parking lot, I would have. Then two more people parked one after the other and a group of people left the office all at once, and I started to fidget; suddenly my feet triggered my insecurity or my insecurity triggered my feet, I didn’t know. But the moment was lost. I threw my coffee out the window. One of the women that parked had a plush Micky and Mini Mouse set hanging from her rear view mirror. I began to look closely at it. At first I just thought it was silly, but then I studied it even more: The corporate motives behind its creation. The senseless smiles on the unrealistic mouse faces. The inherent stupidity of a grown woman with dolls hanging from her car mirror. The inherent stupidity of anyone hanging dolls on their car mirror. How stupid that fucking women is to hang anything on her mirror. Those god damned mice meant business. All of a sudden I saw the mice swinging back and forth, as the women drove down a long dark country road. Then all of a sudden she hits a pothole, and the mice jerk her mirror out of position. As she struggles to eat her plump, dripping, bloated jelly doughnut she is unable to see the head lights behind her. The mirror is broken. The trucker panics, he swerves, but there is nothing he can do. His tire blow, his pneumatic horn destroyed, and his steering locked, he can only signal with his high beams to the car in front of him. But the car takes no notice and the trucker continues to slide forward, undoubtedly on it’s way to destroying the helpless Volvo and its driver. The women hear a kind of low rumble, like a far off shotgun blast that keeps on going, and hopes her car is alright. As it grows louder, she decides to pull over. She checks her mirror to see if anyone will mind her deceleration and notices that it is dangling two and frow, assisted by the sinister mice. And as she stick it back onto the windshield, she noticed the quick pulsing beam of a five ton hunk of steel, rocketing at her like a freight train on amphetamines, and it’s then that she wonders: What will I say when it’s all over? The truck driver, his name is Ed, braces for impact, and just as he’s about to collide with the dinged up brown import wonders: Why in the hell couldn’t that stupid bitch look in her mirror?! Now that the moment was gone, and this fantasy had been loved, the day was essentially down hill from here. My mother, we call her Helga, appeared in the rear entrance of the post office, a model of late forties glamour, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. “What, what does this mean.” I yelled through the windows. “Ten people in front of me.” She rounded the car. “Fucking scum. Fucking post office scum.” She was in the driver’s seat. I was making an effort to sound theatrically angry, but the moment was fading fast. I was far too tired to be this sleepy, and it showed: Bags under my eyes, pale skin, and the stench of candy, microwavable hot dogs, cheap coffee and protein being my olfactory tag line for the day. As usual, despite my mother frantically struggling with the inherent mystery of car keys in the ignition, she was able to have a logical response to my boisterous comments. “And it’s not even the holiday yet.” She had a point. But I had been worried for her. “I was wondering you know, I was looking for my cell phone to call you and ask you what’s up. See if you got arrested.” “I know, I remembered you didn’t bring it, I was going to call you.” Then she added something that, in due time, would start another fiasco. “I had to add the 5 dollars to the label fee.” “What” Incomprehensible was the word of the day apparently. “I had to add on the five dollar charge to the 7 dollar postage fee.” “What five dollar charge?” Now I was getting curious. “The one they bill you for sending it back” She was getting tense even as she spoke. I raised my voice for effect. “I don’t know what the fuck you’r talking about, they get that automatically.” But she still had no idea. “It’s all messed up. Cost me 17 dollars you know.” ”What” “Total, it cost me 17 dollars so far to send this jacket back and now to get it back.” “Where do you get 17 dollars from.” “Ten dollars to ship it out, 7 dollars to send it back, and then another 5 to get it back when it comes. So it’ll end up being….” It was becoming all so wrong. “Bullshit, no, no, no. You don’t add the original ten dollars.” “It was extra.” She was forking the blame over on me again. She was using money as a reason to chew me out, to find reason in my rhyme. This, of course, meant war. “THAT’S NOT EXTRA! The original ten dollars was part of the original purchase of the jacket, so it is included in the total cost of the jacket because we figured it would be fine. But because it was too large, we ended up spending extra to get it back and forth. The 7 and the 5 is extenuating circumstances that we could not forsee, and a nominal fee at that, so no way do you add the original ten fucking dollars.” A preemptive strike. “How long does your father have to work for those extra costs?” Propaganda. “Oh give me a fucking break.” Defensive maneuvering. “all you do is take, take, take.” Flanking. “Fuck you ok! I’ll give you all the cash in my wallet right now. Watch! That’ll take care of breakfast and the stupid assed shipping. Then you can shut up.” Attempts for a cease fire. “You have no concern for money” Repeated shelling. I have to stick my fingers in my ears now. “I’m doing this because I don’t want to hear you right now. We’re settled, argument over, you get the money, quiet time now.” An unexpected and all too early pulling out of troops. By now the battleground had shifted from the road to the car port. But as we both left the car, one last political assassination had to take place. “This is the last time….” She takes point. “What is your problem!? I just ended the argument! We where finished. You just can’t keep your fucking mouth shut! I’m sorry I said ‘nominal fee’ because now you get to make your precious ‘I don’t know the value of a dollar’ bullshit fest and fucking nag me! God damnit.” I launched into a heated political debate. “It’s always take and want with you.” Fabrication. “Jesus Christ! Fine, you can’t just stop can you, you cant just shut up for once.” Debate. We where in the house now, and all gloves where off. One last run for the bunker. “Greedy little ass. Idiot, idiot, idiot.” Frenzied retaliation, last ditch, failing…… Self destruct. “God damn you! You can’t stop can you!? You have to have the last word! You wan’t to know something mom, moron, moron, moron! There, are you happy? We both got to exchange mildly intelligence oriented insults at each other. Grow some candy out your ass, sweety!” I’m in my room now, and the tears are flowing. A historical battle, certainly noteworthy. I feel so pointless and wrinkled, like one of those dried dates that people keep for good luck. And I’m so in love with the idea of being nice, and calm and hollow, but everything seems to vivid sometimes, don’t you think? Too clear and precise to just sail through like a blind little mouse in a corn field. Tumble little mouse, weave and tumble. There aren’t any cats in this field. Only corn and pretty grass blades; Nothing but honey and ice cream in this field, mister blind mouse. Nothing but puffy clouds and candy sticks, little mouse. Little mouse, go home and bury your mother. The word of the day is collapse. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=686