b r e a t h i n g
r o o m
2 Aug 98
Addled or otherwise beyond the pale of "normal" society, a vague, padded older man in belly-encompassing high waders steps across the street, in front of my car, oblivious to the light changing green up ahead. As I let him pass, I see him purse his lips and blow, purse and blow, exhibiting his own unique rhythm, not incompatible with the rhythms seeping out of my car stereo speakers. I park in the yellow (it's Sunday after all), and a street person waits patiently for me to hide my pull-out stereo under the seat and gather my unsunglasses and some of my wits, and step out of the car before loudly hailing me (causing a young nappy-fro'd man up the street to turn in response) and asking if I could spare a dollar. I jiggle the coins in my pockets and answer sorry, no, not today.
Security in my building assumes I work for the big computer company on the seventh floor. I feel vaguely affronted. T-shirt, odd hours, glasses, facial hair, and geekiness mean I work for c2net? Actually, it's not so much that, really. I just wonder if the c2 people noticed there was already one little high-tech storefront already in the building, up on nine. Do they wonder what goes on behind the pebbled glass door with the anonymous sounding company name and URL on the door? Probably not.
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