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Every once in awhile, I do a writing exercise to keep my writing skills tuned up. Usually I sit down and write about something I've recently seen, done, or observed. Could be something as simple as describing a room to a detailed journal entry of my entire day. This time it happened to be the beginning of my morning last week. I was decently impressed with it, so I thought I'd share and see watcha guys think.
October 15th
The morning had been a quiet one. It almost seemed that the looming fog dampened any noise, or gave everything great enough of a chill that speech seemed like something for the bold. Even the headlights appeared to curl back in a fetal position, only casting a minimal amount of light into the misty silver atmosphere around us. The sound of the car’s engine was but a soft whisper.
I had awoken particularly early that morning. I had a plan, an agenda of tasks to complete, and it required more time than I usually cared to allot to one day. As the clock ticked a half hour past six, the 2001 Malibu began its coast down the icy hill.
My mother was driving, and a bit too carelessly I thought. Perhaps it was just the dark that made bushes and cars seem to approach at a greater speed. I glanced over at the speedometer to double-check my senses. She was traveling at normal speed, although with the icy roads, a few miles per hour slower wouldn’t have hurt. Nevertheless we traveled safely, rolling along toward the heart of our little town while other vehicles—more than usual, probably trying to beat the unusually stuffy traffic due to weather conditions—shuffled their way onto the main road.
We approached our destination, a coffee shop that I work at from time to time. My mother was dropping me off, under the influence that I would spend an hour or so studying before walking to the bus station. Of course I wouldn’t be here to study, but for the sake of the show, I said my goodbye and “I’ll see you tonight,” then walked directly into the shop.
I approached the counter with a bit of a lively step, probably influenced by the environment and overhead music. I knew everybody who was working. I had worked countless shifts with them, even though it had been a long while. Faith, the shift supervisor at the time, was maintaining the lobby till and coffee pots while Brad rung up a drive-through order. Jojo was making some drinks at the espresso bar, about to hand them over to Brad for the order he had just rung up.
Faith greeted me with a smile, “Hey, Tim. Long time no see.”
I agreed that it had been awhile. A short conversation led on as I ordered my drink, going back and forth between that Double-tall two-pump caramel, two-pump toffee nut latte and discussing when I would be working next. She asked for my “numbers”, a series of seven digits that identify me as an employee so that I could get my discount. I relayed them to her as I had done a thousand times before. As I pulled out my debit card, she stops me short with a little “Oops!”
“I accidentally rang it up as an employee beverage,” meaning that it was free rather than my usual 30% off. Faith was always nice, too nice sometimes. I gave her a reluctant look and she responded with “I’m serious!” I put my card back and let her win this one.
Moving on, I thanked her and waited for my drink, exchanging words with Jojo as she poured the shots into the cup, quickly followed by the steamed milk to preserve the taste of the shot. When all was done, she handed my drink and I gave my “See ya later!” to all who could hear.
I stepped out into the cold morning. The fog had dissipated some and I could make out the cars easily now. A police car whipped a U-turn and switched on his lights. Someone going in the opposite direction had been speeding. I grew a little uncomfortable. Police around here seemed to make you feel like a criminal when you weren’t. I decided to walk down to the cross-walk instead of crossing the road right there. I had enough time to anyway.
Across the street from the coffee shop was a grocery store, where the final pieces of my plan were to be purchased. Two bags of Sour Patch Kids, and one rose. I wasn’t sure exactly what kind of rose, but when the clerk presented the option of a blue rose, I had to go with it.
The choice of the blue rose over the red one was a bit of a gamble. A blue rose symbolizes Grace and Mystery, while the red rose quite obviously signifies Love and Romance. My goal was romance, but given the circumstances, the blue would represent more romance than the red could.
The exchange of words and cash with the clerk at the grocery store was dull and uneventful. The usual courtesies and thank-yous. Sometimes I hate the phrase. “Thank you.” It’s used all too often without any meaning to back it up. It’s a comment of average. It’s a sign of neutrality. It’s a way of saying “You didn’t piss me off, so I suppose I won’t jump over the counter and beat you with the scan-gun. Hope your day turns out just okay. A good day would be more than you probably deserve.”
Thick thoughts of “Thank You” accompanied me like a shoulder-monkey along the way to the bus stop, poking the back of my head in the most annoying manner possible. At least it did until I noticed the bus driving towards me through a slushy puddle. My lungs jumped as the thought of losing my bus raced into my mind. In a relatively calm frantic state I waved the driver down, who stopped for me even though the nearest bus stop was two football fields away. I stepped on to the bus, waving my pass and thanked the driver. The shoulder-monkey poked the back of my head again and I sat down.
The bus was fairly crowded, at least it was more so than I was used to. The only spot to squat was a seat at the top of the upper deck, towards the rear of the bus. From the upper level I could see the back of the heads of those on the lower deck. As the bus entered onto the highway towards Anchorage, the gentle swings and dips of high speed bus travel took over.
It was soothing, almost melodiously rocking us about like the needle of a metronome. With the road then played the musical beat-machine, the in-sync motion of the passengers began to sway in variety, from the predictable left and right to a series of thrusts and lifts. The collection of metronome needles suddenly transformed into an array of zombies trying to dance as one, only able to teeter around and occasionally drop their heads momentarily.
The painted imagery reminds me of a book I recently purchased—“The Zombie Survival Guide”. I think to pull it out and continuing my ever-important education on the survival of a zombie infestation, realizing I left it at home. It was going to be a long bus ride.
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Writing is one of my favorite hobbies.