At the stoplight, the window of an out-of-province car comes down. I expect the woman inside will ask for directions, but when she sees my disfigured face, she gasps and puts the window back up.
At the Rotary Lodge, I wander from the TV room to the reading room to the dining room to the outdoor patio to the library and to the set of comfy chairs at the end of the hall. Nowhere can I escape the sounds, badges, dings, whistles, alarms, videos, music, and tap-tap-tap of other people’s phones. Does no one know how to put their phones on vibrate? Or how to use earbuds?
In high school, my friend David and I got drunk on beers near a stream. I noticed a caterpillar crawling up on his shoulder and mentioned it to him. He quickly grabbed it, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it. Despite this, forty years later, he is still alive.
My colleague’s daughter at the party refused to eat a hot dog. I laughed, no proletariat food for you. Her mom said she likes steak and sushi. Ah, I said, she prefers the food of the bourgeoisie then. She laughed and said I guess so. But after she finished her hot dog, my colleague asked me what bourgeoisie means.
