I’m riding a bus in a new city, and I don’t know where the stops are. I don’t know how to ask, possibly because I don’t want to ask, definitely because I’ve concocted a personal assuredness that the behavior of asking questions with obvious answers arouses frustration in people expected to answer these questions (usually because they are paid to provide a public service). I try my best to travel with a companion. Sometimes this is impossible. This is one of those times.
In reality, I sit in my seat and stir nervously as my destination reflexively approaches. In my mind, this interaction takes place:
“Excuse me,” I say to the driver, “I need to get off the bus now.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“My place is close by. I’ll just get off right here.”
“You can’t get off here. Just hold on. I’m stopping in a few minutes.”
“In a few minutes, I’ll have to walk much farther.”
“Why didn’t you get off at the last stop?”
“I didn’t know where the stops were. I thought I had time.”
“You’re trying to game the system. You think the bus’ll stop wherever you want it to because this is the story of your goddamn life. Take a seat. Get off at the next stop. Next time, get off at the last stop.”
“But I don’t remember the last stop. I have trouble nailing down landmarks and street names the first few times I go places. Can I get off now?”
“You can’t get off now.”
“Are you kidnapping me?”
“What?”
“Are you taking me hostage? Just let me off the bus. I’m worried about time.”
“It’s a couple minutes.”
“It’s a couple minutes according to you, in the first place. In the second place, it’s a couple minutes on the bus the one way, but it’s surely longer than that the way back, retracing space I never had to cross at all, unless you’re taking me hostage, that is. Either way, that’s not what I meant when I said I was worried about time. I mean I’m worried about time in perpetuity.”
“You should worry about things that are more in your control. I’m not stopping. Siddown already.”
In reality, I never have this argument. The bus has already stopped, and I’ve already gotten off. I’m still having the conversation in my head, though:
“I’m pulling out my phone, and I’m calling the police,” I tell the driver, strictly seriously. “When we arrive at the next stop, the police will be waiting to cite you for kidnapping.”
“Listen.” He breaks off and begins to laugh. “You don’t even know where the next stop is.”
I laugh a little now.
I’m looking for a few books recommended to me by an acquaintance, and I end up having to go to series of shops to find them because a few of the titles are either out-of-print or obscure. This is a flaw in my storytelling. I only know after the story that I’m about to tell that this is the case. Anyway…
I know nothing about these books to begin with, except that I have the authors and titles written on a piece of paper.
There’s a kind of witchy-looking older lady in the center of town who sells second-hand books out of a bunch of seemingly random piles that fill what could have been a funnel cake cart at a carnival. She wears wide sunglasses and has frizzy blonde hair. It’s July in the middle of the northern hemisphere, and she’s wearing a fleece jacket and pants. I assume she is insane.
I show her the list of books and ask if she has any. Keep in mind she stands in front of literal piles of books. She claims very confidently that she has them but that she’ll have to search for them in the piles. She immediately hands me a couple of books that are not among the ones requested, claiming that they are important books by important writers. She is excited by these books the way (I imagine) women in their forties are excited by handsome politicians. I suppose she wants me to buy these books as penance for making her search for the others.
She uses a wobbly stool to climb the stacks, and I wonder if I should hold the stool. As a result, I imagine two things simultaneously: either she falls to her skull-crushing death or she perceives my advance as sexual; she is so flattered by the perceived sexual advance that she falls on purpose, but I drop her.
She hands me some more books. None of them are books which I have requested. I’m holding about seven books right now, assuming each of them are two or three dollars. I’m thinking it’s okay if I buy a couple of books just to avoid confrontation like this (imaginary) one:
“None of these are the books I want.”
“I went to a lot of trouble to get these books. They’re good.”
“That’s admirable, but I don’t want them. And you barely went through the stacks after claiming you definitely had the ones I do want.”
“So I work for you for nothing?”
“No, because if you work a little bit harder, you get something. Right now, you’ve promised me something and delivered nothing.”
“Well, I have the right to refuse service.”
“I don’t get why you would do that.”
“Because you’re being kind of an asshole. The books you want are for someone with a little more class.”
“Fine. I’ll buy all of the books.”
“It’s really the right thing to do, don’t you think?”
In reality, she’s got me handling like half of her merchandise right now. Luckily, one of the books is by an author my acquaintance had recommended, so I ask how much it is. She starts flipping the front cover of every book, saying prices between ten and fifteen dollars. These are second-hand books. I grapple with the notion of haggling, which goes like this:
“I’ll give you five dollars for the one I want.”
“It says ten dollars on the inside cover.”
“I’ll give you five dollars.”
“I’m selling it for ten.”
“But how do I know it’s worth ten?”
“That’s why I own the business.”
“I’ve never seen anyone buy anything from you.”
“I have high standards with regard to my clientele.”
“I’m saying I’ll give you five dollars for a book you had buried in a stack of books you’ve never sold. Economically, you’re not losing five dollars by selling this book below its printed price. You’re always making five dollars.”
“Not if I sell it for ten.”
“You’re never going to sell it for ten!”
“I’m never selling it for five, either.”
“Now you’re losing five dollars.”
“Far as I can tell, I’m dead even. You think I work here ‘cause I need five dollars, right? ‘Crazy book lady and her carnival book cart needs to earn enough to buy a bag of rice,’ right?”
“Well… Yeah.”
“That’s fiction.”
That it is.
In the end, the woman and I share about twenty total words, fifteen of them hers. I buy the one from the author I wanted for ten bucks, and the lady tells me if I come back that she’ll look for the other ones. As of now, I’m undecided.
I’ve just had coffee with my girlfriend, and it’s time to get the check. I’m not particularly in any rush, but we’re sort of in between conversations. Now is a good time. She even asks if I want to get the check, and I tell her that I do. But when the waitress comes around, I honestly get anxious to the point of avoiding eye-contact. I ask my girlfriend if she’ll get the check because I worry about this interaction ensuing:
The waitress is only kind of near us. Not close enough to touch, though I guess I shouldn’t touch her anyway. She’s not looking our way, almost as if she’s determined not to look our way. I perceive this as unwillingness to pay us attention if we don’t insist on paying her more money. I sincerely consider purchasing another cup of coffee, though I’ve had two in the hour we’ve been here. I ask my girlfriend if she wants ice cream. She says that she does not, and I feel a light sweat coming.
I decide to call for the waitress, unsure how to refer to her, less sure of the proper tactic of getting her attention. I know snapping and whistling are not options here unless I want her to ignore me forever. If I ever snap at someone in the service industry, I immediately empty my wallet on the table and run. I haven’t even imagined what whistling would cost. I’d probably have to be wearing some pretty nice shoes.
I have the urge to get up and approach her. It’s less work for her this way. So I stand up, consciously ignoring my girlfriend’s curiosity at my actions. I make my way to the waitress, who’s clearing another table.
“Excuse me,” I say meekly.
The waitress turns her attention to me. “Yes?” she asks. She seems affronted. This is too aggressive, I can tell.
“Can I have the check?”
She drops the customer’s-always-right shtick just for me in this specific instance. She gets all sarcastic: “Of course, sir. Right away, sir. Please, just let me clear this one table. Don’t be cruel, sir. I’m just a simple servant.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, with my hand on my stomach, as I imagine this to be the least threatening stance I can take. “When you have time. Or whenever. Sorry, really.” I say this all sincerely.
Or she’s actually threatened in the first place.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. My head’s all over the place. Please don’t talk to the manager. I’m barely hanging onto this job. Be a nice guy?” She kind of smiles shyly on this last note.
I return to the table.
“Why did you do that?” my girlfriend asks me.
“I don’t know. I thought it would make her life easier somehow.”
“Were you flirting with her?”
“What?”
“Your body language was pretty flirty, and she smiled.”
“No, I barely even managed communication.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I wasn’t fucking flirting with her!”
“Now I’m convinced that you were.”
The imagined scenario fades, and my girlfriend curiously asks, “What?” as if I’m thinking something about her, which I guess I technically was.
“Can you ask for the check?”
“Why do I always have to do it?”
“I don’t know. Is it really that big a deal?”
