The second Monday Coral worked I had to work. True, Monday was my day off, but there was a job I'd left hanging. Sure, working for no pay is a pain, but way better than all the problems that arise from the job left hanging.
I'd already moved three of the four stepping stones and today I was determined to move the last. Having wrestled the stone into my wheelbarrow, it happened again; the tire went flat, the barrow tipped, and away rolled my stone. Like the last time, I chased the stone down. This time, in kicking it over, I jammed a toe. I was hopping about, cursing the stone, when my sixth sense detected four eyes watching through the gallery window.
I stopped hopping, struck that deep-thinker pose the philosopher strikes when contemplating his stone. Which actually got me contemplating my stone. How about that; this was the very stone that had given me problems the first time. Perhaps it was trying to tell me something--tell me it didn't want to spend the rest of eternity under my shack. Lucky for said stone, I was an old soul, the type who showed compassion for the trodden on.
I was bending over, about to roll the stone back in its hole, when something flicked the back of my head--something wet. I straightened up, reached for my hair. Damn, a bird had shit on me.
Omen.
Let's see; feeling sorry for my stone and I get shit on. The very stone that had bruised my sole the first time.
"Conniving bastard! What kind of fool do you take me for?"
The stone didn't say anything.
"Well, fool, you just got yourself a hundred years to life under my shack. The heaviest corner, too!"
My flailing arms, my raised voice got my eye back on the gallery window. Two elderly art patrons were laughing at me--laughing at the fool chastising a chunk of concrete.
The patrons got back to their art on the wall, and I struck a compromise with my fellow fool. "OK, stone, I won't stick you under my shack. But neither are you going back in your hole. Maybe I'll stick you . . . well, I don't know where I'll stick you. But where ever I stick you, you'd better like it, or I swear, I'll get out my maul and bust you up."
My stone wanted to argue, and I did too--I was really good at it, but it was 11:30; had a place I had to get to.
After quick-shoveling some nearby mole mound dirt into the stone's hole, I wiped the sweat from my brow, grabbed the arms of my disabled wheelbarrow and limping, dragged my injured comrade up the hill.
Leaning heavily on the Front Desk, I waited patiently for Coral to get off the phone. Boy, was this panning out to be my heyday of heydays, or what? No, as soon as Coral hung up on the difficult person on the phone, there, she'd warm up to me, the noble old soul who wasn't difficult at all. I mean, had I not, just yesterday, gone to great lengths to stay out of her hair?
Of course, Coral's display of forbearance with the difficult person on the phone, had brought me within a hair's breath of an anxiety attack.
Breath, Anton, breath.
No, I was already hot from wrestling my stone, and now the flood lights above the Front Desk were working beads of sweat out of the place in my scalp that hadn't taken kindly to that bird shit. Boy, I sure could have gone for a breeze about now. I was looking at the side door, thinking of going out, when what comes in? More heat.
Whenever I saw Hayward coming, I set about rehearsing snide remarks in response to his likely criticisms. Today I was liking, "No disrespect, sir, but this is my day off, so I'll lean on whatever Front Desk I like."
To properly set up said remark, one wants to lean extra hard on ones Front Desk. Perhaps I'd overplayed my hand, for I'd hurt my arm. What upped the pain was Hayward, hurrying on by without saying a word. Rubbing my arm, I turned to watch his backside going the way of craft. We at the college didn't know how, exactly, Hayward was wronging his wife, but he was always running into the Craft Shop to buy high end items to right it.
I was working my arm--to see if I could work my broom--when Hayward peeked around the corner as if to say, "I've got my eye on you."
I could have raised my arm, showed Hayward how he'd disabled me. Instead, I planted my arm so hard into the desk I hurt another part of it.
Forbearance, forbearance.
Suffering, I looked up, glared the gods down. No, I'd asked the gods repeatedly to keep the Haywards of the world out of my hair, and this injured arm was the last straw. Fortunately, for the gods, I couldn't see them up there--the translucent skylight blocked the sky. What I could see up there was the graven image the Desk staff had placed under the skylight to keep the hay out of their hair.
Coral hung up the phone, threw the phone the bird, then looked up at me and said, "People are such a pain. What do you want?"
That's right; people step up to the Front Desk to conduct business. Or, to voice a complaint. Seeing how the only business was to have a heyday with the desk person, here, I thought I'd voice a complaint. I was raising my arm to complain about the the pain in it, when a student stepped up to the desk. "Dye cabinet key," the student said.
Coral spun around in her chair, examined the wrack of keys. The Dye key wasn't on it's hook, and Coral was checking every hook on the door for the damned misplaced dye key.
Oh, well, gives me more time ward off anxiety. A good way to ward is to work the bird shit out of ones hair. I barely got my good arm up there, when another student bellied up to the bar, in need of some other key, no doubt.
Perhaps heyday wasn't in the cards.
I was about to head out the door, when my eye caught Hayward peeking around the corner again. I replanted my arm, heyday or no.
I had a breathing exercise to ward of anxiety. Breathing, I panned the atmosphere surrounding the snaking Front Desk. At the tail end of the Front Desk, layers of light had come together to build a visual that spoke of coolness, quietude.
In need of such, I slid on down, never releasing my arm pressed hard to the desk.
Of course, the college catalogs spread out at the end of the counter were a bit loud. I stared down the catalogs fanned out like a hand of playing cards. The repetitive visuals looked like the rattles of a snake. They weren't rattling, of course, but I got it in my head that they were.
In a last ditch effort to quell anxiety, I stepped back from the Front Desk, willed the rattles still. The rattling went on. Freaking out, I hauled ass out the door.
In need of such, I slid on down, never releasing my arm pressed hard to the desk.
Of course, the college catalogs spread out at the end of the counter were a bit loud. I stared down the catalogs fanned out like a hand of playing cards. The repetitive visuals looked like the rattles of a snake. They weren't rattling, of course, but I got it in my head that they were.
In a last ditch effort to quell anxiety, I stepped back from the Front Desk, willed the rattles still. The rattling went on. Freaking out, I hauled ass out the door.
Out the door, I was struck by what a fine day it was. A shame to go home on such fine day. I stopped, panned the surrounding shrub beds. Let's see, what work might a guy knock out on such a fine day? Then again, maybe it wasn't a good day for work--I worked my stubbed toe, worked that patch of hair stiffened by the bird.
It came to me then; what a guy might knock out on such a fine day--a saint.
Heading for my truck, I spied Apolena coming up the drive. She was carrying her plastic food container--heading for her picnic table to eat her lunch, no doubt.
Or, was it a picnic a guy should knock out?
"Apolena," I said, slowing, "how's things going?"
"Most things are going." She stopped on the patch of asphalt darkened by the birch tree's aphid drippings. "How are your things? Hot in the garden today."
Heat reminded me of what I'd just gone through at the Front Desk. It was then that I heard the rattling in my head. Maybe the rattling was for the best, for rattling spoke of warning, and warning got me recalling a certain vow I had made where Apolena was concerned. "Anyway, Apolena, hot in the garden makes much work for the groundskeeper. Talk to you later."
Heading for my truck, I thought of my lone savior, Saint Emilion, pining away at home for me.
I started up my truck, pulled out onto Silo Road; that old stretch of blacktop that had the same curve as the vein on the back of my hand. That's when another curve came to mind--the curve at the snake-end of the Front Desk. No, I now welcomed the rattling in my head. Better rattles than dwelling on the kind of damned fool who sees fit to play the field where women are concerned. That potter's field that can only drive a guy to drink.
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