Friday, December 01, 2006
Shouting Into the Wind
He probably doesn't know that I know he plays the pronoun game. Or that I count how many times he says "Well, I know" before someone else can finish their thought. He talks about what is on television. He speaks of it like he is reading a menu in great detail, making comments at each item, shaking his head in distaste at most of them, his voice becoming still and deep with the few he enjoys.
And what I don't know is he probably is well aware that I have been fed up with him. He sometimes complains in quiet, knowing that I can listen to him. Or better -- he will address me directly with his claims, saying, "You see, don't you? You see what I mean." When I tell him he hasn't said anything, he blames everyone, throwing his hands up and pursing his lips.
He doesn't know that I wonder if there has ever been anyone who would do anything for him? Like the mysterious pronoun-person -- would they? Or are they also ashamed? Do they fight him also, or are they smarter than I? Do they already know it is not worth the effort?
He was distressed when they moved the television channels. I still picture him waddling toward me in his barrel-style pants, with his list of complaints, smelling like sweat and onions, demanding service, never looking me in the eye. And all the time, I could only wonder what his ideal day would be like: a clear, blue horizon, not too hot, not at all cold, and as quiet as the empty streets around his apartment tower shared with the pronoun-person. There would be a full listing of programs for the night ahead. But then there would be news, and thoughts of tomorrow, and that would inevitably bring back that familiar sour look to his mouth.
And what I don't know is he probably is well aware that I have been fed up with him. He sometimes complains in quiet, knowing that I can listen to him. Or better -- he will address me directly with his claims, saying, "You see, don't you? You see what I mean." When I tell him he hasn't said anything, he blames everyone, throwing his hands up and pursing his lips.
He doesn't know that I wonder if there has ever been anyone who would do anything for him? Like the mysterious pronoun-person -- would they? Or are they also ashamed? Do they fight him also, or are they smarter than I? Do they already know it is not worth the effort?
He was distressed when they moved the television channels. I still picture him waddling toward me in his barrel-style pants, with his list of complaints, smelling like sweat and onions, demanding service, never looking me in the eye. And all the time, I could only wonder what his ideal day would be like: a clear, blue horizon, not too hot, not at all cold, and as quiet as the empty streets around his apartment tower shared with the pronoun-person. There would be a full listing of programs for the night ahead. But then there would be news, and thoughts of tomorrow, and that would inevitably bring back that familiar sour look to his mouth.
