Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Hopeless, Not Clueless

Despite my best attempt, maturity has eluded me. Oh, sure, I've got a few of the physical symptoms...little lines around the eyes, and knees that speak when I stand up.

But I suck as an adult.

I went through the motions. Started off as an art major, then migrated over to something more responsible. A year out of college, I was sitting in a meeting, surrounded by people who seemed genuinely interested in the proceedings and suddenly, they all looked like aliens. Or demons.

Whatever they were, I thought, "Who are these fucks and what the hell am I doing here? Honestly, who gives a shite when the Environmental Impact Statement goes out for public review? Who gives a shite about public review? Fuck the public. Fuck all of you."

About a decade later, I'm back where I started, hoping to make money with doodles and poorly constructed sentences arranged to resemble a narrative. I don't own a Blackberry or Blueberry or whatever the hell they are called. I haven't updated my resume in years. All my clean socks live in a hamper, where I excavate daily looking for a matching pair. The bathroom hasn't been cleaned in...a while.

So it's funny when I catch myself doing the old fart thing and sneering at teenagers and their cultural trappings. But, really, they're just asking for it.

Take the bunch in front of the gas station on Saturday. The car is an older Honda Civic that's mostly primer gray. Like an ugly birthmark, a big, pink splotch of Bondo pink covers the front right fender. Ah, but the wheel rims are top of the line. These are heavy on the chrome and they feature little spikes that protrude like something you'd see on a Roman chariot.

The stereo with its Big Bass is threatening to rattle the little four-cylinder engine onto the concrete.

This, apparently, is the height of teen cool. Right.

The car's occupants are even funnier: four Hispanic males (sounds like the description of every criminal suspect in the Albuquerque Metro Area), all sporting that super-short, "looks like they've got a scalp disease" hair cut. All are advertising the fact that they wear briefs, as per the "waist sagging down to their ass" pants. I guess flashing the underwear is equivalent to the red ass in baboons, signals sexual readiness. Seems rather pointless since all young males are perpetually randy.

One of them keeps futzing with his "do," spreading his blocky brown fingers and lightly patting the stubble with his palm. They all lounge against the car, dim, weasely eyes surveying the parking lot.

My impression: Future patrons of New Mexico's fine correctional system.

Of course, that's the old fart in me talking. Maybe they're honor students and the owner of this fine conveyance worked all summer at his parent's ice cream stand to earn the money for those rims.

Fat chance, that. Heh.

The J-Man is filling the Dodge's tank, an operation that takes a lifetime and a mortgage worth of gas, so we bear witness to The Boyz departure. Clownlike, they all pile into the little car. Not one of them's head rises much above the dashboard and seat. (Hispanics are a short people; at five something, I'm a giant.) The car moves away, still shuddering under the impact of sonic waves from the stereo, the tops of The Boyz stubbly heads bobbling.

I watch them go, content in the knowledge that as long as there are teenagers, there will always be someone more clueless than me.

Wednesday?
P.K.

 

Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005