"The More You Know" Short
The more you know…
That is not always a concept open to some individuals. Some of us are afraid of knowing too much. Even though the majority of people around me seem to be terrified of knowing to little. That is not the case with me. I would be very happy to know less, at any measurement, then what I know right now. In fact, I could say knowledge is my worst enemy. Has been since birth. My brain does not know how to just slow down, take a breather.
Hell, I would even give my arm for my thought waves just to take a damn vacation once in a while. To watch TV and perhaps enjoy it without instant downloading.
I am guessing you people are lost. Well, consider yourself lucky. Let me tell you a story really quick and maybe you will be better informed, you poor things.
It was a summery day in mid august. The weather wasn’t too hot but I was roasting. The Laundromat had been closed for three days straight because of pipes bursting. It’s called maintenance, assholes. Anyway, I refused to go to my Aunt Debra’s and ask to wash clothes, I hadn’t seen her since I skipped out of high school and told her that she’d be better off not worrying about my education and worry about her alcoholic husband that continues to pee on the neighbors dog.
I even think I may have said something about that hideous mole that I know is cancerous, hanging off her eyebrow. I mean really how does she even see out of her right eye?
Sorry. I get sidetrack very easily.
Back to the reason I was sweating like a whore in church during a hype sermon about blasphemy.
I was forced to wear something, something from the depths of my unfortunate closet and even more unfortunate past. It was about a size too small and the arms had ALWAYS been to damn short.
Two words. Christmas Sweater. I looked like the kid from that annoying Christmas flick with some sort of sweating disorder. I was walking down the sidewalk in a busy early morning bustle wearing dirty jeans and a Christmas sweater, in August.
I will let that sink in for a moment.
To make matters worse, I hadn’t had time between losing my last pair of clean socks and finding my one missing loafer to remember deodorant. Me, someone that remembers the inspirational quote tattooed on a hooter’s girl chest back in the 90s, while intoxicated I might add, forgot for a moment the one thing that could have possibly saved me from being a total loser that day.
The quote, by the way was “Think big.” I am sure it was a pun on her phenomenal rack and no doubt one of the primary reasons she was hired at that establishment. I am certain that we engaged in a bit of the ole’ “in and out” , since a mental video of semen running down over that same quote always accompanied the recollection. Inspirational indeed.
Back to the story. August day. Busted pipes. Christmas Sweater.
I was moving quickly through the thicket of fellow pedestrians, doing my best not to laugh with them at myself. I was moving with a minority of people walking in the opposite direction than the majority. The rebels of the group. You tend to notice the people that seem to be following you since you really weren’t supposed to be going this way on this particular sidewalk.
It wasn’t posted on signs it was just one of those society claimed rules of thumbs. Who’s thumbs I’m sure I’ll figure out. Kind of like the rule of walking with traffic, or is it against traffic? They both have pros and cons of course.
Walking with traffic means you’re not obstructing the drivers path but it also means that you can’t see them coming just in case they want to hit someone that day. Yanno, because they were unjustly fired from their part time, mediocre desk job, that while in jail they will realize it wasn’t worth the vehicular manslaughter charge.
However, if you walking toward the oncoming traffic, you just feel stupid don’t you? Suddenly instead of being a victim, you are suicidal. You have that little wispy thought in the back of your mind that tells your body that this is a really bad idea but also you can jump in the ditch to save your would be murderer from that regretful prison epiphany.
There were about five of us that I could really notice. In addition, we were each characterized in a completely different way. The woman to my immediate right was loud and obnoxious to whomever she was yelling at on that cellular device. Little did she know she was most likely also yelling at an FBI desk jockey assigned to tap her and a bazillion other phones, watching his keyword directed software for anything orange on the threat scale. Something about her woven hair being to tight and giving her a migraine.
The “gentlemanly” figure just behind her was walking with a purpose and a briefcase. Probably one of those robotic office weasels that will eventually be that frustrated ex-employee that runs somebody down and gets it up the rear in state pen before he reevaluates his life choices. The older lady to my left, I could not help but to notice she smelled familiar.
I knew exactly what that smell was. Orchids and embalming fluid. My cousin Harvey worked at a funeral home and I owed him $20. One day, I show up to free my debt at time I wish I had not.
He was learning the embalming process and the flower truck had just pulled in. He was covered in that putrid liquid and had been helping the people unload for a service the next day. I am curious still as to why she smelled just like that. Him I get, as far fetched as that situation was, but why her? What chain of events lead her to this place right now, next to me, smelling like that familiar scent from my memory’s roulette wheel?
Strange. But then again it was also strange that I could smell that and not the oil in the weave on my other side or the sweaty palms of the businessman, or even the cheeseburger the fourth person was chowing down on.
A chubby skater type. On a board that was probably his third or fourth that month. It was a cheaper wood than the pros use, and I’m sure one of many in the repetitive cycle of break and buy. Sad thing is if he bought a thicker board, or rather his Granny did, she’d buy them less often, or perhaps he not eat so many cheeseburgers from that persistent child force-feeding clown?
Maybe that is why clowns are so terrifying to some people. They support obesity and health problems. Gotta love global franchising, killing the awesomeness of clowns for more and more generations to come. Come to think of it maybe, it was Stephen King that killed clowns for many people.
But to me a carb pushing pedophile in weird make up is much scarier and more impacting than lil ole’ Pennywise. Moreover, this kid was proof of the horrid ingredients in the Mc-whatever, acne ridden and at least 100 pounds heavier than me, being almost a foot shorter and probably 10 years younger.
Just picture it, he was moving at the same pace as us on foot but on wheels, and that looked to be stressful for him. Why I was stuck in this clan of misfits right now was unsure, but I’m guessing it was because I was wearing that unimaginable sweater.
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