X) Government
tommyb
Registrant
(a chapter)
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(Saturday, 24NOV2018)
'Friends were in town. Some off the grid. They had one amongst them who needed to sleep on my couch. 'Didn't mind.
Upon parking his bike and dropping his hiker's backpack and gear, he looked around the apartment, then centered toward the television. "Dude," he says, as he turns his expression back towards me. "You don't have a game system?"
Blue-eyed with curly-blonde hair, twenty-two years of age, a-little-too-skinny, with a maybe-learned countenance of super-friendliness, as if being proudly off-the-grid had made him more grateful toward kindness, he went to take a shower and change clothes.
Opening the large wooden chest at the end of the bed, 'made up the couch with extra linen and blankets, including a folded stack nearby. 'Then 'minced garlic and chopped onion and placed them in warming olive oil in a cast-iron skillet, having no other ideas for supper.
While making risotto from plain white rice, then adding the-good parmesan and the-good black pepper, plus a little milk as cheat, he sits in a wooden chair adjacent to the kitchen and tells his life story. At first it remains a series of adventures and mishaps, while traveling by foot and by-hitchhiking across huge swaths of the American northeast, Midwest, and Montana. Then he tells it a second time, more bluntly, with self-effacing deadpans along the way. The he retells it, where everything he did was wrong, and his relatives and friends could do no wrong.
"'Have a neighbor with a PS3 he never uses," 'tell him.
"Is there a GameStop near here?"
'Next morning, cold settles over the mountains, intending the same winter storm that concerned me concerning him in the first place.
'Should have seen it the night before when we thought to get provisions from the grocery. 'Used to work there, so some are familiar, but mostly 'notice the private expressions that occur, like they're kindly relieved to see a normal dude who seems to do most of the talking, in this bright-eyed, grinning way he has. 'Usually I shop here alone. 'Forgot it was Thanksgiving two days ago.
On the bus the next morning, 'run into known-for-years-neighbors, previous co-workers, and people from groups. The neighbors are formal and official in their socializing, as if pleased with the Jane-Austen-ness of it, while the co-workers have a strong-joking demeanor, reminescent of the bonds formed in hot kitchens during rush-hours, and the trust when sharing heavy labor.
He sits alone on the back row, me perpendicular to him, watching all of us, keeping himself out of it, but for one curious expression, occuring when a Vietnam-era poet-from-my-building reaches out her hand to squeeze mine, as if with knowing, while never bringing up poetry.
At GameStop most games tend to be around seven dollars. He knows everything. I know nothing. He's like a kid in a candy shop.
Next door at the general store, lots of customers know me, while he stays silent, and I do say, "It's been too long..." a lot.
Co-workers happen by with confident purpose and glad smiles, usually with something funny to say, playing into whatever dynamics we have, then begin their bard's-like spiel. 'Swear general store workers wouldn't get along so well if there wasn't such constant, intense drama.
Back on the bus, toward the apartment, he seems like he wants to say something.
'Turned away as we sit across from each other, 'having noticed the lack of critiques. There were no policemen or firefighters, giving that look like they want to keep out of my space, while unable to hide a look of astonished pride. There were no guys-my-age randomly aggressively spitting out a self-satisfied critique. It never matters until that moment of small-town-life where you run into them again, when they suddenly have a look of haughty offense, seemingly having accidentally vetted themselves in front of friends and acquaintances. Most are kind, merely wanting me to know they're a ... fan(?).
That's one thing the general store's workers taught: people can live with their government and wealthy blatantly corrupt. They cannot live without the wealthy and the bureaucracy. What will they do without soldiers ... Another was that the working classes remain not-wildly wealthy because they never came across an honest path to become so. Also, their American propensity to leave the lost lost.
Things were once quiet blunt and constant: An uninvited exchange with a co-worker concerning the poetry, or as they call it, the novel, on average goes like this:
"Why don't you just publish it?"
"How do you know about what you're talking about..."
"Why don't you rewrite it so it's written to us instead of them?"
This is usually met with a look of astoundment.
"I just don't f_cking get it -- Always surrounded by thugs. Publishing thugs. Government thugs--"
"--Hope the government never finds out I learned my numbers and letters--"
"--You're lucky to be alive--"
"--Why'd Bill Clinton cowrite a bad novel with James Patterson--"
--'Stopped watching the road, and look toward him, as if checking on him.
"People really like you," he says in his early-twenties auto.
He looks at me smiling and genuine, then turns his head away, as if secretly happy for me, maybe recognizing no one has ever said that to me. He turns his features back towards me with anticipation, the snow beginning outside the windows behind him, mountains moving by. He cocks an eyebrow with that same incredulousness as Dakota.
"Dude," he says, with a slight shake of his head. "Where do you go?"
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__
(Saturday, 24NOV2018)
'Friends were in town. Some off the grid. They had one amongst them who needed to sleep on my couch. 'Didn't mind.
Upon parking his bike and dropping his hiker's backpack and gear, he looked around the apartment, then centered toward the television. "Dude," he says, as he turns his expression back towards me. "You don't have a game system?"
Blue-eyed with curly-blonde hair, twenty-two years of age, a-little-too-skinny, with a maybe-learned countenance of super-friendliness, as if being proudly off-the-grid had made him more grateful toward kindness, he went to take a shower and change clothes.
Opening the large wooden chest at the end of the bed, 'made up the couch with extra linen and blankets, including a folded stack nearby. 'Then 'minced garlic and chopped onion and placed them in warming olive oil in a cast-iron skillet, having no other ideas for supper.
While making risotto from plain white rice, then adding the-good parmesan and the-good black pepper, plus a little milk as cheat, he sits in a wooden chair adjacent to the kitchen and tells his life story. At first it remains a series of adventures and mishaps, while traveling by foot and by-hitchhiking across huge swaths of the American northeast, Midwest, and Montana. Then he tells it a second time, more bluntly, with self-effacing deadpans along the way. The he retells it, where everything he did was wrong, and his relatives and friends could do no wrong.
"'Have a neighbor with a PS3 he never uses," 'tell him.
"Is there a GameStop near here?"
'Next morning, cold settles over the mountains, intending the same winter storm that concerned me concerning him in the first place.
'Should have seen it the night before when we thought to get provisions from the grocery. 'Used to work there, so some are familiar, but mostly 'notice the private expressions that occur, like they're kindly relieved to see a normal dude who seems to do most of the talking, in this bright-eyed, grinning way he has. 'Usually I shop here alone. 'Forgot it was Thanksgiving two days ago.
On the bus the next morning, 'run into known-for-years-neighbors, previous co-workers, and people from groups. The neighbors are formal and official in their socializing, as if pleased with the Jane-Austen-ness of it, while the co-workers have a strong-joking demeanor, reminescent of the bonds formed in hot kitchens during rush-hours, and the trust when sharing heavy labor.
He sits alone on the back row, me perpendicular to him, watching all of us, keeping himself out of it, but for one curious expression, occuring when a Vietnam-era poet-from-my-building reaches out her hand to squeeze mine, as if with knowing, while never bringing up poetry.
At GameStop most games tend to be around seven dollars. He knows everything. I know nothing. He's like a kid in a candy shop.
Next door at the general store, lots of customers know me, while he stays silent, and I do say, "It's been too long..." a lot.
Co-workers happen by with confident purpose and glad smiles, usually with something funny to say, playing into whatever dynamics we have, then begin their bard's-like spiel. 'Swear general store workers wouldn't get along so well if there wasn't such constant, intense drama.
Back on the bus, toward the apartment, he seems like he wants to say something.
'Turned away as we sit across from each other, 'having noticed the lack of critiques. There were no policemen or firefighters, giving that look like they want to keep out of my space, while unable to hide a look of astonished pride. There were no guys-my-age randomly aggressively spitting out a self-satisfied critique. It never matters until that moment of small-town-life where you run into them again, when they suddenly have a look of haughty offense, seemingly having accidentally vetted themselves in front of friends and acquaintances. Most are kind, merely wanting me to know they're a ... fan(?).
That's one thing the general store's workers taught: people can live with their government and wealthy blatantly corrupt. They cannot live without the wealthy and the bureaucracy. What will they do without soldiers ... Another was that the working classes remain not-wildly wealthy because they never came across an honest path to become so. Also, their American propensity to leave the lost lost.
Things were once quiet blunt and constant: An uninvited exchange with a co-worker concerning the poetry, or as they call it, the novel, on average goes like this:
"Why don't you just publish it?"
"How do you know about what you're talking about..."
"Why don't you rewrite it so it's written to us instead of them?"
This is usually met with a look of astoundment.
"I just don't f_cking get it -- Always surrounded by thugs. Publishing thugs. Government thugs--"
"--Hope the government never finds out I learned my numbers and letters--"
"--You're lucky to be alive--"
"--Why'd Bill Clinton cowrite a bad novel with James Patterson--"
--'Stopped watching the road, and look toward him, as if checking on him.
"People really like you," he says in his early-twenties auto.
He looks at me smiling and genuine, then turns his head away, as if secretly happy for me, maybe recognizing no one has ever said that to me. He turns his features back towards me with anticipation, the snow beginning outside the windows behind him, mountains moving by. He cocks an eyebrow with that same incredulousness as Dakota.
"Dude," he says, with a slight shake of his head. "Where do you go?"
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