Waiting for the client. The weekend, a Monday meeting, then I get comments. So no work to do until next week. Today is Friday. It’s a full moon tonight. I got my start fee and my passport papers together so I decide to spend a couple hours this afternoon running errands, grab some lunch. After getting my passport pictures back, I’m convinced to shave this lop-sided winter beard. It makes me look like a bum and now I’m going to wear the mess on my passport for the next ten years. Fuck.
Celeste says my bluetooth earpiece combined with my skateboarder fashion sensibility makes me look like a drug dealer. We affectionately call the bluetooth earpiece my “asshole plug”. In the pedestrian role, I always wear a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. I got them originally as a joke to look like a jerk but now I can’t seem to be in public without them. Hiding behind a two way mirror on my face is very comfortable. Amy got me a t-shirt for Christmas this year that says “Humbolt County” in Olde English calligraphy. It is the icing on the cake of my drug dealer disguise.
Streaming Metallica through the earpiece, rolling down Vermont Avenue. Line in the Post Office is much too long, bank is first. Cross Sunset Boulevard. Deposit. Receipt. Back on the street.
Stop at Fred 62 for lunch on the way back up. There are two lesbians at the lunch counter next to me. They are either still in the beginning of their relationship or they just had a huge break-through as I make one of my infamous counter-factual assumptions. They are so affectionate and happy. Smiling and talking, holding hands. I can almost feel the love. One of them asks me if I have an iPad. “Oh, no it’s an Amazon Kindle,” I reply. They are adorable. “Check, please.”
The line at the Post Office is about half the length it was before. I was surprised by how difficult it is to find Tyvek envelopes in my neighborhood. Or maybe I thought they were more common than they really are. But now I am putting one registered in the mail. In six weeks I’ll have a new passport, fubar beard and all. Cash. Receipt. Back on the street.
I decide to stop in the 7-11 to get a cup of coffee before I head back home. Two steps into the door and I realize that there is a guy behind the counter yelling: “You fucking make me! You try to fucking make me!” Hey, he’s not an employee. Hey, he’s wearing a drug dealer disguise too. Except his asshole plug looks a lot more expensive than mine. The clerk at the register is cowering on the phone as if ready to absorb the impending assault. This doesn’t look like a very good place to be right now so I turn on my heel and head back for the door. The screaming dude behind the counter must have come to his senses and realized that he doesn’t want to deal with the 911 call in progress because he is suddenly in a hurry to get out from behind the counter and through the front door as well. Or did he just redirect the sharpened point of his anger? What the fuck, is this maniac following me out of the store? Shit. Scanning the ground for something heavy or sharp. Shit. I have reach and weight on him at least. Don’t know if that will hold up to what I suspect is a neurological advantage of having his gills thoroughly caked with stimulants and engulfed in adrenalin. Or more likely a fucking handgun. Shit. He’s right behind me, I can hear his footfalls closing in as I’m rounding a gianormous black Cadillac Escalade parked beside the store. Shit. Don’t panic. I hear the door of the Escalade open behind me as I’m passing the front bumper. Sweet relief, It’s the rage parade’s Escalade. Of course. His Escalade. I suddenly realize I’m a total poser. Fuck.