So I haven't shaved in a while. And my hair's decidedly unruly, as is my attitude....
You see, when a "Wal~Mart incident" occurs on the telly or at the theatre, what follows always clicks along like clockwork: the gun play and ensuing requisite gumshoeing transpire rather briskly. But here, in real life, with these words and our computers being the only entities that separate you the reader from actually "being there," well, all of this must necessarily move along at real time.
And even though I've formed many hypotheses, drawn the occasional conclusion, snapped to many judgments, and reported on more than a few irksome developments, overall, I have to admit things are not going along smoothly. Or rather, things are going along smoothly, but (purportedly) too slowly.
Glaciers, they say, move right along, and the recent events in my life seem to be inching along at a comparable clip... accompanied by sporadic spikes of excitement (i.e. every now and then this "glacier" calves an iceberg).
To be sure, these days are decidedly as monumental as watching a glacier move. Tearing away mountains, yes, reeking havoc, yes, but at around forty feet per year. And everything on your TV is like a hundred miles an hour. I can't compete!
I've tried to intermingle topical events from my personal life with events associated with the shooting to, you know, add a touch of the human and keep things real.
But there have been emails.
Many emails.
I'm getting the impression that vast hordes of you think this is less than or different from what it appears to be. All of this is a piece of my real actual life. A gun was fired. Sure, the explosion I heard might instead have been an M-80--or somebody might have died. That someone was kidnapped at gunpoint and is now waiting around on pins and needles, or chained to the water heater, is a distinct possibility.
Folks, I don't know how to speed up real life.
And, frankly, I don't think real life needs to be sped up.
This is just the way it is. Believe me: I'm trying to find a way to ingratiate myself into salsa guy's confidence, and/or trying to find myself in his basement--legally. But there's only so much snooping around a guy can do, yet still remain on the up and up. After that, it's pretty much a waiting game.
I suppose I could describe what happened this past weekend at a sale that Beth, Kevin B.'s girlfriend, conducted out of her garage, but what happened didn't amount to a hill of beans, and wasn't really all that interesting. I drove to her neighborhood, saw what looked like a mini-bazaar, scooted home, put on different clothes, and drove our other car back to her place. Started rummaging. She approached and asked if I were looking for anything in particular; I responded, "Just browsing." I tried to limit my eye contact, to not make any sudden movements, and to otherwise conduct myself in an easily-forgettable way.
Meanwhile, during this conversation, I'll be darned if every single other garage sale customer--all eight or nine of 'em--didn't choose that moment to either get on their bicycles or hop in their cars. Suddenly, Beth and I were alone. (And when I say "suddenly" I'm talking like within fifteen seconds. What is it with people?) So much for remaining less than a blip on her radar.
She sat down at her little jury-rigged cash box/front desk station and jammed a straw into a box of wine, then offered me a sip. I said I didn't know if the missus would approve.
She said, "Are you finding everything all right?" Then she sucked down about half the box.
I was about to answer, but I looked behind her and saw an enormous stack of empty dog food bags. They all looked very familiar... if you know what I mean.
"Wh-- Why all the dog food bags?" I asked.
"They're not for sale."
I thought about pursuing this line of inquiry further, but reckoned our conversation could only get more awkward. A friend or relative might be able to dig deeper, but not the herb. Not today anyway.
"Do you have any binoculars for sale?" I asked, hoping to seamlessly change the subject.
"I don't think... No, wait a minute. You know, I just might have some." She tamped a ciggie out of her Beanie Baby-looking cigarette cozy, lit it and asked if I were in a hurry.
"Am I in a hurry?"
"Just hold on. Lemme go look." She opened the door leading into her house.
Alone in the other woman's garage I didn't know what to do, what to inspect. "You know, this is where some professional training might come in handy," I quietly said to myself. I stealthily moved to the pile of dog food bags and, sure enough: Kibbles 'n Bits, each and every one of 'em. Well over a hundred empty bags, all neatly stacked and pert near flush with the ceiling. Then I spied another stack of 'em, and another, positioned like sentries or gargoyles on either side of the main garage door. I quickly walked back out into the sun and started pawing through some gewgaws.
Just then Beth emerged with a telescope. "This used to be my cousin's. Is this what you're looking for?"
"No, that's a... That's quite all right."
"But didn't you say you wanted binoculars?"
"That's for... well, looking at the moon and the stars. I was after something more portable, something to bring to the horse track or for an afternoon of ornithology." Here, I made "OK" signs with each hand, then pressed both to my eyes.
"Oh. Gotcha. Binoculars. Right," she said, tossing aside the telescope and reaching for her box of wine. "We don't have any of those."
I thought about asking "We?" but I knew that would be out of line. I grabbed a paperback and started thumbing through it.
Soon, I was on my way.
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