shovel

Years ago, I lived with a Febreze fanatic. The couch always smelled good, better than I ever expected couches to smell, as if it had been stuffed with fresh dryer sheets just before I sat down. I grew to like it, to expect it, to rely on it to mean that everything at home was in order and okay.

Later, I would find out that sometimes people spray Febreze on themselves because they can’t or don’t want to shower. While I am at work, its scent creates a different context; now Febreze is mild confusion or warning, sparks of sunshine gleaming off the head of a raised shovel.

vintage

I spotted a vintage Pelikan 100 in the wild — the reference desk, really — on Monday. It was burgundy with a bright gold “beak” clip and its owner let me write with it. It was filled with Private Reserve Chocolat, an excellent choice for this smooth writer. I let the patron write with my Lamy 2000, which is the new hotness of my collection and the Pelikan’s opposite in form and character; while the Pelikan reminded me of an antique Bentley, my Lamy is more of an Audi TT.

It was a random treat in the middle of a dull day.

Now I am flipping through Fountain Pens Past and Present and it smells just like my high school yearbooks used to smell. That combined with the smell of freshly-baking bread is making me homesick for Chicago, but only the Chicago of my teenaged self, all Wax Trax and Café Voltaire and living for that first burst of Friday afternoon air, half-past three and everything is possible as long as someone borrows a car.

one more smell

The dashboard widget said 8 minutes, so I power-walked. As I slid onto one of the last non-senior seats on the bus, I caught a whiff of rubber cement.

The last time I smelled rubber cement on the bus, I was sitting next to the same person.

The smell was not entirely unpleasant. It reminded me of when I used to decorate my Chandler’s assignment notebook in high school, cutting out strange pictures from magazines and pasting them on the pages.

And so I catalogued one more smell that will not make me give up my seat on the bus.

restroom

I stepped off the 19 Polk with a mad grin.  The driver had been brilliant, announcing all the stops and transfer points, and even complimenting riders as they stepped onto the bus. “I love those boots, girl!” “C’mon up, beautiful!” She told me she loved my hat and called me cute as I thanked her and hopped off.

Trader Joe’s was aflutter with pre-dinner preparations. The cashier tried to make small-talk with the women in front of me, but they were dour and busy. He gave me a look and a shrug as if to say, I tried. He, too, complimented my hat, so I thanked him, and we exchanged those small pleasantries that make the line go faster.

As I was waiting for the 27 Bryant in an unfamiliar part of town, a young man, scruffy but cogent, was roaming a nearby parking lot.  He picked up a downed piece of fence and tossed it at the side of the concrete building a few times, seemingly out of boredom. I looked away, gauged my other bus-waiting options, pondered the dangers of walking instead — those things you do when you live in a city.  After a while, he emerged from the parking lot and saw me. Slowly, he approached.

I felt no threat as he walked up, hands at his sides, head slightly lowered.  It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about what would happen if he attacked; there were plenty of cars passing by, and I had quite a set of lungs and boots.  His demeanor was not that of an attacker.  He looked like a little kid caught doing something.

“Hello. Do you work there?” he turned slightly to the building with a small shuffle of his feet.

“No, I don’t. I am just waiting for the bus.” I made eye contact, smiled politely, then looked away as if to accentuate the fact that I had not noticed him near the building.

“There are cool things by the parking lot. Flowers and sculptures and things.”  I had noticed these, but barely, so I nodded but did not encourage.

He stepped to the side again.  The side of his face I could see was turning red.  “I went to the restroom in the parking lot. Did you see me?” His use of the word restroom instead of bathroom surprised me.

“I didn’t see you,” I reassured him.

“OK. I went to the restroom there.”

I shrugged, “I don’t think anyone could see.”

“All right.  Thank you.” With a flat gesture of his palm out to me, almost as if he meant to shake my hand, he bowed slightly.

I did not move.  “You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered up the street.

invisible pie

After writing like this for nearly eleven years, I have run out of titles, so I am recycling random things I hear that stick in my brain.

Brain, brain, brain: offline life has become a morass of the brain. First it was grad school applications, then the short story that took over my subconscious, and now an impending civil service examination.

Then there is the reading list: Enduring Love (Ian McEwan), Tricked (Alex Robinson), and more than a few others. Last night, we even watched a movie, “The Visitor”, so uncommon for us as we have devoted all our DVD time to “Battlestar Galactica” for months now.

Aside from writing, I have lost the urge to think creatively, and have not picked up a puzzle in months, nor have I started one of the myriad knitting projects my mother so thoughtfully sent me. My games lie fallow. I suspect this preponderance of linear thinking over non-linear comes from a sedentary lifestyle. Correcting this is my next order of business.

The details of two important events in my near future remain undecided — graduate school and the wedding — so I rely instead on the certainty that they will happen. For someone as obsessed with the minutiae as I am, this reliance does not come easily, but it comes.

I will close with a few online tidbits:

• Hunch: asks you simple questions, then gives you clear advice.
• F.lux: adjusts the color of your computer display to the time of day.
• unlibrarian: is my tumblelog, which is where you will find my random silliness.