admin
22 December 2023
I’m writing this from a 30-minute terminal in the Juneau Public Library, seated between a mouth-breather with an alarming affinity for sunflower seeds and a woman carrying a large gastropod of flesh across her lower body. She hasn’t quite figured out the part about covering your mouth before sneezing-- I can see the tiny Technicolor pinpricks of moisture highlighting her monitor from where I sit, wrapped as I am in the depressing amount of wool armor needed to combat the hawk-like Autumn wind which runs screaming down the mountainside, ripping at your clothes with such personal ferocity that you wonder if it’s been eavesdropping on you.
I was gonna write this out by hand, but my favorite Sharpie just died, and my hands are too stiff to function. Still, I type a hell of a lot faster than I write. I could type faster still with a quad-grande white mocha from the café down the street, but right now I don’t have enough money in my pockets to pay someone to laugh in my face.
27 minutes left.
I like this library; the third floor view looking out over the Gastineau Channel is fantastic. During the summer months it’s obscured by giant white cruise ships which dwarf this and every other structure along the waterfront, but now I can see the mountains with hallmark clarity. I like the fact that the staff doesn’t harass the homeless people who come in to flip through the glossy pages of People magazine, catnap in the corners, and restore the circulation to their frozen limbs. Yeah, the smell is troubling at times, but they can’t help that.
25 minutes left.
I often wish I had the resources to offer one of them a place to sleep, a shower (with soap), a hot meal, and the dignity of a job. How idealistic my solution, how naïve I am to think that these things are the only barricades preventing lost men from climbing back through the window to join the world party. I can barely keep myself above water, let alone offer my fellow man the promise of tomorrow....
20 minutes left.
I wish I had more money than Bill \"I’m-too-rich-to-wash-my-own-goddamned-hair-once-in-awhile\" Gates; I’d parade through the streets and write the kind of checks that change lives. I’d remodel homes and fix cars, buy warm boots for children, buy four years at a good school, pay hospital bills, put food in cupboards, get people out of tight spots, and give them that chance to breathe they’ve been waiting for. I’d go through pens like a knife through shit. I’d spend until I was just like them again-- but not before I got that steaming monstrosity of white chocolate and pure caffeine I so desperately crave.
15 minutes left.
I wish I spoke a foreign language; I’m awfully fond of Russian, and German, Japanese, and Latin, too. It’d be nice to be able to switch to another tongue, and let some fragment of myself peek out from behind this famous facade. I’d say something like:
Me: Do you speak Russian?
Girl at the checkout counter: Do we have books on Russian? Yes, they’re--
Me: No, sorry. Do you speak Russian?
Her: No.
Me (in Russian): Isn’t this pathetic, me, posting an anonymous daydream in a foreign language from a terminal in a public library, safe from everyone but the NSA, and I’m still not able to let myself interact with other people? I just don’t know how to relax anymore. What’s become of me?
Her: I’m sorry, what did you say?
Me: (in Russian) Please understand, I’m not hitting on you or anything. That’s not my intent, to impress you with my imaginary language skill. I mean, you’re attractive in your own way, but not in one that appeals to me, personally. I just wanted a human moment, some meaningful interaction with a living, breathing soul; sort of a \"What’s it all about?\" thing. I was just hoping we could converse openly about our common experiences and emotions, but, it turns out I just don’t have the courage to cut through my own bullshit and let the cold air seep through. Even in Russian. By the way, could you loan me four dollars? I want to buy a mocha from the café down the street.
Her: What are you saying?
Me: Nothing. Thank you. I’ll find the language section myself.
5 minutes left.
There’s a line forming; heavyset people with wild hair are giving me dirty looks. One of them has a large steaming cup of coffee in their hand.
Bastard.
Yours truly,
- SJB
I was gonna write this out by hand, but my favorite Sharpie just died, and my hands are too stiff to function. Still, I type a hell of a lot faster than I write. I could type faster still with a quad-grande white mocha from the café down the street, but right now I don’t have enough money in my pockets to pay someone to laugh in my face.
27 minutes left.
I like this library; the third floor view looking out over the Gastineau Channel is fantastic. During the summer months it’s obscured by giant white cruise ships which dwarf this and every other structure along the waterfront, but now I can see the mountains with hallmark clarity. I like the fact that the staff doesn’t harass the homeless people who come in to flip through the glossy pages of People magazine, catnap in the corners, and restore the circulation to their frozen limbs. Yeah, the smell is troubling at times, but they can’t help that.
25 minutes left.
I often wish I had the resources to offer one of them a place to sleep, a shower (with soap), a hot meal, and the dignity of a job. How idealistic my solution, how naïve I am to think that these things are the only barricades preventing lost men from climbing back through the window to join the world party. I can barely keep myself above water, let alone offer my fellow man the promise of tomorrow....
20 minutes left.
I wish I had more money than Bill \"I’m-too-rich-to-wash-my-own-goddamned-hair-once-in-awhile\" Gates; I’d parade through the streets and write the kind of checks that change lives. I’d remodel homes and fix cars, buy warm boots for children, buy four years at a good school, pay hospital bills, put food in cupboards, get people out of tight spots, and give them that chance to breathe they’ve been waiting for. I’d go through pens like a knife through shit. I’d spend until I was just like them again-- but not before I got that steaming monstrosity of white chocolate and pure caffeine I so desperately crave.
15 minutes left.
I wish I spoke a foreign language; I’m awfully fond of Russian, and German, Japanese, and Latin, too. It’d be nice to be able to switch to another tongue, and let some fragment of myself peek out from behind this famous facade. I’d say something like:
Me: Do you speak Russian?
Girl at the checkout counter: Do we have books on Russian? Yes, they’re--
Me: No, sorry. Do you speak Russian?
Her: No.
Me (in Russian): Isn’t this pathetic, me, posting an anonymous daydream in a foreign language from a terminal in a public library, safe from everyone but the NSA, and I’m still not able to let myself interact with other people? I just don’t know how to relax anymore. What’s become of me?
Her: I’m sorry, what did you say?
Me: (in Russian) Please understand, I’m not hitting on you or anything. That’s not my intent, to impress you with my imaginary language skill. I mean, you’re attractive in your own way, but not in one that appeals to me, personally. I just wanted a human moment, some meaningful interaction with a living, breathing soul; sort of a \"What’s it all about?\" thing. I was just hoping we could converse openly about our common experiences and emotions, but, it turns out I just don’t have the courage to cut through my own bullshit and let the cold air seep through. Even in Russian. By the way, could you loan me four dollars? I want to buy a mocha from the café down the street.
Her: What are you saying?
Me: Nothing. Thank you. I’ll find the language section myself.
5 minutes left.
There’s a line forming; heavyset people with wild hair are giving me dirty looks. One of them has a large steaming cup of coffee in their hand.
Bastard.
Yours truly,
- SJB
artid
2893
Old Image
7_4_jpl.jpg
issue
vol 7 - issue 04 (dec 2004)
section
pen_think