As I walked down the street, keeping myself to myself, I nonchalantly spit out a sunflower hull into the gutter. Snacking on salted sunflower seeds was my passion. I figure the discarded shells do no harm where they land, since they are completely biodegradable. Then imagine my astoundment when a woman rose up from behind a Japanese andromeda, shaking her forefinger at me like a baton. I decided she must be 'tetched,' as we say back in Iowa, and continued my stroll unheedingly. But she jumped over the shrub to follow me. I turned to give her a stern look, hoping to discourage whatever shenanigan she had in mind. Then I saw her t-shirt. It read: "Captain Hiroko Tabuchi. Composting Constable." Uh-oh, I said to myself. This day is now officially off the Mercator projection. I gave her a weak smile. Gave her a limp wave. And began to sweat like a kinkajou. She strode up to me but before she could speak I took the initiative. "Why are you wearing a mustache?" I asked her. She looked startled as she felt her upper lip. "I have no mustache" she replied, bewildered. "Ah" I riposted, "but you were thinking of getting one -- right?" "Well, no, not really" she said. "Could it be the New York Times does not allow its female writers to have mustaches?" I sneered at her, feeling rather cocky. Now things were going my way. Her look of bewilderment turned to sadness. This alarmed me. "My father had a fine mustache" she told me quietly. "And so did my cousin." "Uh, tell me about composting" I begged her. Her feelings were shattered because of my aggressive behavior. I had bullied a member of the Fourth Estate. And I felt like a cad. But she just slowly shook her head while walking off into the gloaming. As she shuffled away, head bowed in sorrow, I vowed then and there to never abuse a writer again -- no matter how many shrubs they jumped up from. And I would give up sunflower seeds. My breath already smelled like ammonium nitrate anyways.
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