I thought you were waving to me as I filled up the Honda.
But you weren’t so my wave back to you was awkward to say the least. You were with your friends and so you all had a good laugh at that. In fact you all walked to your car mimicking my wave and yucking it up pretty good.
One of you yelled for me and then waved as if mentally handicapped. Pretty much everyone at the station at that moment was in on the hilarity. Even an old man seemed amused and tried explaining the whole episode to his wife still seated in the car. Being hearing impaired meant they used their loud voices.
“That dummy over there thought those girls were waving at him, I think...No Mildred, he doesn’t appear to be drunk...”
That set off a new round of jokes, laughs and finger pointing from the dozen or so patrons now just milling about. I wondered what happened to the proletarian revolution as I waited an eternity for my tank to fill up.
The attendant came over the loud speaker. “Pump six, your set for a wave. Sorry, I mean pump 5. That was intended for pump 5. My bad.”
The now moving car full of girls almost wrecked upon hearing that. And as you drove away, over the curb, everyone waving out every available window, I saw the way you looked at me.
Behind the disdain and contempt lay a genuine smile. A young girl who just wanted love like I do. A moment not alone in the brutal, exposing light of humming fluorescent bulbs.
“Ultimately, “the revolution”, however conceived can never really go away, because the notion of a redemptive future remains the only way we can possibly make sense of the present...” - David Graeber
N.
No comments:
Post a Comment