So much fun working publicly in the Town Square, my car squeezed perilously into a sidewalk spot between the ‘Map of the Village’ sign and the Concrete Cows some elected official decided to purchase as ‘Outdoor Art.’
Main Point: Any passing motorist who doesn’t blow his horn, scream ‘Yo, Yonatan!’ or otherwise acknowledge my Presence must be either a newly-arrived immigrant, or someone who owes me money.
One can bat around forever the advantages/disadvantages of small-town life. Today, I chose to relish the plus side. (…and vowed to make a ‘collect my receivables’ run this evening.)
Last night, feeling inexplicably irate, I fairly blew up at the Super when Cheese-slicer lady put my order on hold in deference to some bozo’s shopping list of crutons(?)
He defended himself: “How was I to know your shopping-cart had priority?”
Of course I stilled my phantoms forth-with, and apologized for being edgy.
Cheese-lady then took my cell #, to install plastic roofing on her porch. Cruton-guy did likewise, recognizing me as the highly-regarded gutter-and-down-spout local expert.
I do keep a safe distance though, from the Frozen Fish aisle . For some reason, statistically, work-contracts negotiated there have a higher percentage of ‘dead-beat’ non-payment.
A sign on my car I should put? ‘Will work for fish’ Nah, could be misconstrued.
Wu: An a-typically brief entry
Me: Yeah, bothers me too. Innocent Readers are forgiven for imagining that my days are spent constructing blog-posts.
Wu: And the horn-blowers? They likewise knoweth not whom they distract?
Me: Absolutely. I had this killer idea for a poem. Now all I remember is the smile.
Wu: Or the simile…