Category Archives: Slice of Life – Two Writing Teachers

Shuffluffagus

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Last week a disgruntled me posted the following on my Facebook page.

Facebook image of angry woman with quote: I am ready to throat punch the colleague who WON'T PICK UP THEIR DAMN FEET!

My cubicle is in a high traffic area where one path leads to the pantry in one direction and to the bathrooms in the other. There is a constant and I do mean CONSTANT stream of passers-by. For the most part, they blend into the white noise of office life and I do not notice them.

But I then I started hearing the shuffle and it’s not the Cupid Shuffle.

This is someone new to the floor. I know they are new because I know I was not hearing the regular sound of loudly shuffling feet until a couple of weeks ago. They are not someone I work directly with so I do not know who they are, or what unit they work with with.

My first thought upon hearing it was the person was tired. We have all had those days where we are just exhausted and can barely put one foot in front of the other. I was forgiving of it that first day. After a couple of days I realized, no, this is the way this person walks – period. Remember where I said I sit. Think on how exceptional this person’s walk must be to stand out so.

Shuffluffagus™ (I know I’m wrong – shoot me), passes my cubicle hourly on average. I hear them before they approach, as they pass, and after they’ve gone by. The majority of those who also have cubicles in the path wear headphones/earbuds. I envy them. I do. I cannot sit in my headphones/earbuds all day. I can barely get through a multi hour training session without constant adjustments of my headgear because they irritate. Not that it would help for I have conducted virtual trainings, been in virtual meetings and have heard them pass. Muted, but still noticeable. In a seven hour workday – that is a lot of shuffling.

In my head, I often hear my southern grandmother yell “Pick up your dang FEET!” when they pass.

Each time they pass by on their way to the pantry or bathroom it is distracting. My head unconsciously pops up most of the times they pass. Which is its own frustration for even the ten-fifteen seconds I’m pulled out of my concentration. Fine, it’s Shuffluffagus, I refocus on my work but then a minute or three later here comes the return trip. Then a respite that lasts anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour or so, before wash-rinse-repeat shuffle.

Because the distraction is enough to make me raise my head, or at least turn it, sometimes there is momentary eye contact with them. I know me; RBF -Resting Bitch Face to those not familiar with the acronym- is my norm. It’s how God made my face. However, I know on occasion the constant distraction has taken my face from resting to active. I also know from the way they have taken to not look at me now and again means that active face has been seen.

I genuinely thought it was just me being overly sensitive, and as I posted earlier this year, my fuse has been shorter than usual. What can I do? Nothing – their walk is their walk. So I bite my lip, try not to look up each time their shuffle distracts me and bear it.

Then this exchange happened [I am the blue text aligned to the right.]:

I wrote down the name “Shuffluffagus” and showed her. Her peal of giggles made it worth it. I was so grateful to know that it was not just me in my misery I threw emotional confetti. No, it doesn’t stop the annoyance of the Shuffluffagus, but clearly Misery really does love Company, because having someone to commiserate why I want to throat punch Shuffluffagus has lessened the desire to do so. Slightly.

Day 7 of 31 – Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up today!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

What Had Happened Was Supposed To Be Nothing

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I wake up at 5am Monday through Friday for work. Unless I have some activity outside of my house that requires otherwise, I utterly refuse to acknowledge the earth exist before 8am on weekends. Even so I generally do actually get out of bed until well past nine. So can someone please explain why my brain did not understand the assignment this morning?

My eyes opened to a bright sunny day and I declared today I ain’ts gonna do nuttin’. I did not want to do anything. I did not want to go out for anything. I did not want to think about anything. I had no plans for the day other than to veg out. In fact I was in bed, in my pyjamas minding my business of nothing other than deciding how I was going to completely lag about today – and then…

Stop. Drop. Go get the broom girl and grab a mop.
Go. Go. Gotta make those floors shine and glow.
[10 points to those of you who get the musical reference]

The next thing I knew it was past noon. I don’t what happened…

Ms. I Did Not Want To Do Anything had a kitchen, bathroom, living room and bedroom were swept, mopped, dusted and a load of laundry done. Wait what? I heard my grandmother’s voice on my head girl what is you doin’? and whatever magical button that had suddenly turned on Domestic Goddess mode now turned off. I looked in my dining room / office that also could have used a little need a spin n’ span that happened in every other room in my place, but the brain said noPe we’re good.

The next thing I knew it was past two. I don’t what happened…

Ms. I Did Not Want To Go Out For Anything was getting showered and dressed to hang out with cousins. They were in the City for a few hours and wanted to go out to dinner. I looked at the beef stew in my refrigerator longingly. I pretty sure it laughed at me. Perhaps sneered – stews be like that sometimes..

The next thing I knew it was past eight. I don’t what happened…

Ms. I Did Not Want To Think About Anything after coming back in from the early dinner found herself looking at a completed poem and a 3200 word chapter of a potential story. That last was especially frustrating because I have a different story I’ve been try in finish for nearly a month. I abhor everything I write for it, none of it feels right for that story. Yet Muse – fickle wench – drops this whole new thing on my on a day I didn’t want to think about anything. Harrumph!

The next thing I know it’s going on ten pm and for a day I in which I wanted to do nothing find myself realizing that only thing I had wanted to do today -post a slice today- came close to not happening.

Day 6 of 31

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Almost But Not Quite

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We’ve reached that lovely part of the year where the lion and the  lamb start circling one another.  Where Persephone reminds Hades it’s once again time for the distance part of their long distance relationship. Where fauna and flora begin their respective reproduction orgies.

We in the northern hemisphere prepare to happily shed clothes, while our southern hemisphere reluctantly prepare to bundle. In the interim Gaea and Bacchus sip fermented ambrosia while they flip coins on the weather temperatures.

Spring is still a couple of weeks away by the calendar. That means it is still officially winter. So at guess who has been in a comfort food mode these past couple of days? Breakfast Wednesday was cheese grits with scrambled eggs and sausage. Thursday’s Dinner was grilled swiss and bacon with tomato soup. And last night I got the brilliant idea to start on one more stew for the winter. My brain is self-wired to think of stews as only a fall/winter weather thing. Thus, I only make stew September through March.

I still haven’t quite learned the knack of cooking for one. So, things like a stew are a commitment to several days of having the same meal before I start Ziploc-ing and freezing. Regardless, I was still in comfort food mood, I wanted homemade stew so I begin Step 1:The Gathering. Do I have everything I want to make stew? Yes/No work out substitutes or things I’m willing to do without (how is it I do not any green peas in the house – canned frozen or fresh? Oh right they’re on the shopping list for tomorrow because you forgot them last week – grrr), and lay everything them out. My small kitchen with minimal worktop space looks like I’m setting up for a cooking segment as I prep. Speaking of which…

It galls me to see cooking segment/shows that lay claims of 15 minute prep/20 minute cook. Yes, Rachel Ray can throw all those perfectly measured peppers/onions/carrots/seasonings etc in a timely matter because she has someone else as sous chef doing all that fun stuff beforehand. Like most home cooks I am my onw sous chef. It took nearly half an hour just to clean and cube the four pounds of chuck roast to bite sized pieces. I still have the onions, potatoes, carrots et al to be done. It essentially took an hour to do all the prep and sear the meat before I transferred everything to the crockpot for the actual cooking to begin.

I should probably mention it was already 8pm when the brilliant idea struck. Thus it was just after 9pm when I finally turned the crockpot on. So low cook for eight hours or cook on high for fours hours. Yeah, who am I kidding? I set an alarm and four hours it was. At 1 in the morning I removed the bay leaves and rosemary, added the cornstarch to thicken the broth and gave it another fifteen minutes before I declared it done.

Please remember all of that was because I wanted stew for dinner last night. At nearing on two in the morning I then grabbed what was left of the cabernet sauvignon that didn’t go into the stew and called it a night -erm- morning.

1:30am this morning
Bowl of beef stew served over pasta, topped with cheese. blend.
7:30pm tonight. I like cheese – shoot me.

Day 5 of 31 – Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Ummm Why?

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The more I think I cannot be caught off guard by the “ummm why?” of those people with whom I share the office floor, the more those people – and note I did not say co-workers or colleagues, but those people – are determined to prove that I in fact can be caught off guard.

Exhibit A: I walk down the hall at work and encounter this: someone left their dishes in the water fountain.

Okay, “dishes” is bit of a misnomer. It’s not as if there is a stack of plates with remnants of mom’s spaghetti. [Dammit – and here comes Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” to rattle in my head for the next hour.]

I’ll even give credence to the fact that despite the literal dishwashing implement in the dirty mug in preparation for cleansing, clearly the incredibly rude person who did this was only storing the items there momentarily-likely while the used the nearby loos- before they could be taken to the sinks in the pantries. Regardless, that was just wrong.

Yes, there are water coolers -with better tasting, colder, better filtered water- located elsewhere on the floor that most people use. Those water coolers are located in the pantries that bookend the floor. As my floor hosts about 400 seats, 80-90% of which are occupied on any given weekday; the coolers are literally a full street block apart from one end of the floor to the other. This classic water fountain is centrally located on the floor. Regardless, that it is used much less often, it remains a working fountain, I have seen people use the fountain as intended – to drink from.

I can only imagine the utter repulsion of the poor souls who wanted a quick sip at the moment without going to polar ends of the floor to do so and encountered that nonsense. I know I shuddered at the thought.

So typical me, printed a sign and taped it above water fountain: This is not a dish rack. It is a working water fountain. Just because YOU don’t drink from here does not mean others do not.

The fact that I saw the dishes, got annoyed, created and printed the sign and the items were still there when I returned to the fountain to post said sign proved its need for it (in my humble opinion – and some of you know how humble my opinions are). Sign printed and posted I forget about it.

When I left for the day I pass the fountain and note the dishes are gone, but the sign remained. Only now in tiny print in a corner was scrawled Oops Sorry. This morning the sign was gone.

I have no idea if the offender knows I posted the sign. Unless I see the person with the mug I will have no idea of the offender’s ID.

I do have an idea that at least that person will not be so presumptuous about turning fountains into personal dishracks.

Day 4 of 31 – Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up this Friday!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

A Job and A Title

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One morning I was given a job. It came with a title.

I knew it was going to be a demanding one. I had read and been told so much about how to do the job. Watched others. None of it prepared me for it. Because in spite of all the advice, I learned the job on the fly. There were far too many days when I had no idea what I was doing, even less of what I was going to do next.

Not going to lie, there were days where I know I messed up royally. And while even now, after holding this position for decades, I still sometimes question my abilities for this job. I do the job anyway. Most days I think to myself, I’ve done my best, I continue to do my best and it’s not a bad job at all.

One morning I was given a job. It came with a title.

And unlike marriage, it’s a job and a role that not even death can part.

The job: parent. The title: Mother.

Over recent years I am, or have been, the emotional parent of sorts to several, not even close to being called children, a few of whom who refer to me in matriarchal terms.

I am the biological mother of two.

But only one can be my first.

One morning I was given a job. It came with a title.

No, that’s not accurate. I wasn’t given a job and a title.

One morning, a bundle was placed in my arms, and I was honored with the job and title for the very first time.

Sometimes I swear that morning was just yesterday, a week ago at the most.

Happy 40th Birthday, my first sun.

Day 3 of 31 – Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up today!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Dynasty Circa NYC Mode

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The subway, again being the subway this morning, I was put off my train. At least this time I was at a good transfer point where I easily had choices and was able to move without my St. Jude of the MTA beacon turning on.

The previous train had the heat turned up to lava, so by the time I transferred to another line my coat was wide open. Though the clothing rules have been more or less relaxed to business casual at work, I own suits, look damn good in them, and choose to wear them. Thus I was in full Raivenne in the City stride as I sauntered into a surprisingly only semi crowded car, which is eons better than a semi-empty train car, that was empty for all the bad reasons a subway car during NYC rush hour can be.

As I start to scan for where I want to sit, I hear a very bad Humphrey Bogart impression from a very familiar voice.

“Oh hell! Of all the subways in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine!”

I encounter a colleague who now works in a different location. Though we have kept touch via phone and email, we have not seen each other in person in nearly two years (stupid Covid!). We have always had a wonderful joke-flirt-tationship, so for him to pick right up and greet me as such is a delightful surprise to say the least.

“Oh that line is only worthy if you’ve got gin to serve up in this joint.” I grin as as I see him and approach in full Domonique Devereaux mode. [Kudos to all of you who do not have to look that up.] “Dashing as always, darling. So, tell me – do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you have gin to serve up in this joint, of course. Do keep up, Blake.*”

“It’s not even 7am!” he exclaims.

“Unfortunately, true in this time zone at the moment, but…” the adage of it’s 5’oclock somewhere so clear in the silent ellipsis there was no need for the words to be spoken.

“Oh God!” he laughs.

“Yes?” I smile benignly to my devotee. “How may I help you?”

“I completely forgot how modest you are not. You don’t think much of yourself do you?” he laughs, well used to my antics.

“Darling please! Most women know those days when everything is working for her – hair- war paint – clothes – all on point. Even the most homely and humble feeling of women will honestly acknowledge to herself now and again that she may be “pleasing to the eye” on a given day. I have a full length mirror at home; I know what I am working with. And let’s face it, I’m as humble and homely as I am skinny and white**. Now where’s my London Dry?”

Please note this exchange is happening on a NYC subway to the amusement of all within earshot.

Idle curiosity made me look it up and at the time of this writing it is coincidently after 5pm in Casablanca, Morocco. Alas, I am not on holiday and do need to prep for yet another meeting that should be an email – thus my thirst for gin remains unquench – for the moment.

Here’s looking at you in spirit Bogey and Ingrid.

Time in Casablanca, Morocco 5:09:32pm, Wednesday, March 2, 2022

*Blake is not his real name. Since my mind was in full Domonique Devereaux of “Dynasty” mode as I teased with him it felt apropos to use here.

**For those of you readers who don’t know me (and why the hell don’t you! Read my About Raivenne page dammit!), I am big bodacious beautiful black woman.

Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up today!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

My Human Nature Deja Vu All Over Again

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*🎼 excuse me while I take a momentary interlude to hum a few notes from the chorus of Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” 🎶*

Oh, okay I’m back. The moment I thought of the title for today’s slice the music moment happened in my mind. I imagine quite a few of you familiar with the song, had a similar musical Pavlovian response reading, but I digress.

I remembered it is Tuesday and I need to post today as I have not done a slice in a couple of weeks. At the beginning of the year I did say my One Little Word is Persistence. I did promise myself I would persist in being more regular in my blogging. Human nature that while my regular posting is not where I want to be, yet accept it is better than it was.

Only now as I started typing today did it hit me that today is also March 1st aka the first day of the Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge. How lovely and fitting it is that this year, the 15th Anniversary of Slice of Life Story Challenge starts on a Tuesday! I’ve been a participant for over half its existence. Oh boy!

Make that an infrequent participant. One where I’ve missed a year or two, but most often do not complete a full month. Like last year where I fell asleep and missed completion by ONE DAY. Oh hell!

Now here am I – I, who has been letting Life! Liberty! and persistent pursuit of simply Living! has trouble remembering to post once a week, has once again signed up with a promise to post every single day for the next 31 days. How’s that for self-gluttony for self-punishment? Yet I cannot help/resist enjoying the challenge each year.

I will dub this the Pursuit of Persistence 2022.

See ya tomorrow.

Come see how the rest of us are sharing slices of our lives!

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15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

St. Jude of the MTA

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Many New York City dwellers will happily tout their knowledge of the City and how to get around it.

I am here to say many of those New Yorkers are liars.

Yes, they are the experts who know the optimal place to stand on the subway platform to be in the right car to be let off at the optimal stop at their destination. Key word “their”. It gets proven every time a wrench is thrown onto the their perfectly laid tracks throwing them off course. These are the New Yorkers who know how to get from Point A to Point B and that’s it.

Yesterday morning was prime example.

The train we’re on was being put out of service. The entire train. We are at a station that is not an exchange point. There is no other train coming on another track. Not something anyone wants to hear first thing in the morning. Especially those who, like me, have an hour or more commute one-way and we were barely fifteen minutes into it when it happens. Alas, we’re New Yorkers, we’re commuters such is life now and again.

Naturally, there are no announcements because usually such disruptions are minor, the conductor playing ‘better safe than sorry’ by putting a train out of service than risk something major. The train is put out of service, a few minutes later the train drives away and we wait for the next one. It’s fifteen minutes of griping commuters on average.

This was not an average day. It’s twenty minutes later of angry commuters playing ‘do I stay or do I go?’ as there are no announcements from the train crew or the station to help in the decision making. It all came to a head when NYPD, NYTPD, FDNY, and transit maintenance personnel with their equipment enter the station and the train. Aw hell, that’s a bit not good. NYPD, NYTPD and FDNY, respond to rule out there is no unexpected human element involved when a train is majorly delayed as such (aka no one died and/or a person needs to be removed – it happens). However, when you see the maintenance crew with their gear board the train, then you know the train you got kicked off from is not going anywhere anytime soon. This also means no other train on that track behind it is going anywhere anytime soon.

I build in extra minutes into my commute so I can get breakfast, get to my desk, eat and caffeinate before I officially start my work day. I look at my watch and know I am not getting to work on technically time, but I can still get to work at a reasonable time. I know where to go. Time to reroute myself and get going.

Finally there is an official announcement over the PA speakers telling everyone what some of us have already figured out: Get to the next express station, one stop away, where trains on the center track are bypassing all of this nonsense.

And THAT’S when the lamentations of those above mentioned experts begin.

“I don’t know what to do…” “Where to go?”  “They ain’t telling us nothing!”

That was my cue to be quiet. I knew where I was, where I was going and several alternate ways of getting there. Mind my business and get myself going to my destination. Easy right?

Yeaaaah, about that…

An older woman looked to me. She’s one of the several commuters I see almost daily on my train. We know nothing of each other than the fact that we have shared the same train nearly every day for a couple of years now. She looks at me and I can see the barely contained anxiety about to explode as she asks “Do you know how to…”

Annnnnd fuck my life…  

Because of course I know and I don’t want her to panic over something so simple as catching a bus to the next train stop and catch the train that is bypassing this stop from there. As I explain exactly what to do I see another woman nearby pretending she is not listening when she most certainly is and dammit I can feel the flashing MTA sign above my head beckoning all the lost souls turn on…

Sure enough, within the next few minutes….

  • “Go downstairs wait for the Bx4 at the bottom of the stairs right here to the last stop at 3rd Avenue where you can catch the #2 or #5 downtown. Can you walk from here to there? Technically yes, but you don’t want to if you don’t know where you are going. And you clearly don’t.”
  • “You guys follow me. You two follow him. You follow them.”
  • “No. Don’t wait for the Bx19 cross town to get to the #1. Take the #2 to 72nd Street it’ll be faster.”
  • “No, since we’re at 3rd Ave, take #5 to 59th for the N train. It’ll be faster than the #2 to 42nd Street.”
  • “You’ve got a cane and limping, get off with me at 135th Street and wait for the #3. You’ll have a seat to your Chambers Street stop.”
  • “If you move down two cars it will put you off right by the elevator at 42nd Street.”

I don’t understand how people have lived and commuted for decades, fucking decades, and still do not know how to get out of their own damned borough without a taxi at times like this. To be fair, I would have been in a cab on my way to work myself were the cost not prohibitive. Alas, I meander my way to the next station like the good employee I am and help a few others do the same. With various directions, words of encouragement, numerous iterations of “thank God I ran into you” and several effusive thanks later, my various temporary charges and I are all off on our respective, if not necessarily merry, little ways.

When the final transheep in my charge exited at Chambers Street, I throw my head back against the wall and let out the aggrieved sigh I have been holding back for nearly an hour. A fellow passenger on the train, not a part of the original mayhem, but has laid silent witness to my feats of transit shepherdess the past few stops of it, looked at me and grinned.

“Gee, I never knew St. Jude was a black woman because damn those were some truly lost causes.”

“Like you have NO idea.” I laugh with relief as my MTA signs turns itself off and I am on my own again for what’s left of my commute. And in spite all of that I was officially only twenty minutes late to work including getting a well-earned breakfast.

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Slice of Life – Tuesday Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

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We Don’t Talk About The Name In The Meme

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It’s funny how a simple thing as a nomenclature can take a life of its own, then subsequently affect so many others with the same name.

In 1997 American singer Erykah Badu bade the soon-to-be ex-lover protagonist of her classic song to call his friend for assistance in moving his belonging out of their shared domicile. Or in simple words “I think you’d better call Tyrone (call him), And tell him come on help you get your shit…”

“Tyrone” was a major hit for Ms. Badu. Unfortunately, it was also a major pain for every male named Tyrone, where those not paying attention to the lyrics mistook “Tyrone” for the lover getting the boot.

For many the word chad is a nonsense word worthy of Lewis Carroll. However, many others know Chad is also a proper name. There are a few known well known Chads out there now – Chad Kroeger of the band Nickelback, Chad Lowe – brother of fellow actor Rob Lowe, NFL’s Chad Pennington of the NY Jets, and seriously giving away my vintage here, actor Chad Everett from the 70’s TV show Medical Center.

However, in the 2000 U.S. presidential election between George W. Bush and Al Gore, the fate of the presidency hinged on tiny slivers of paper called “chads” as in “hanging chads”, “butterfly chads” and even “pregnant chads”. These chads became the source of much controversy in the state of Florida and across the nation in 2000 — which eventually swung the presidential election to George W. Bush despite the popular vote going to Al Gore. They became the most famous, well infamous, of all Chads to the chagrin of all others.

Tyrone and Chad specifically come to mind because anyone named Tyrone or Chad had to suffer the slings and arrows of jokes from late night talk hosts and regular folks for a very long time afterward until the ever-fickle public found new fodder to set flame. And this happened in a world before “memes’ were truly a thing. While “hanging chads” has fallen out of use except as a mark of U.S. electoral history, Tyrone has managed to (ma)linger on to become if not memes, at least gifs that can me used when someone needs to “call him.”  

A video of a little boy, clearly copying the mannerisms of his father, became viral when telling his mother to “Listen Linda..” while trying to get out of the trouble he was in.  “Listen Linda” became the bane of every woman named Linda. But not just them, any form of Linda in the name was fair game: Malinda, Belinda, Calinda etc. They all caught a piece of the nonsense.

And can you imagine how every Charlie Brown felt when that classic by The Coasters song came out?

Some name memes like Chad and Linda understandably die out when the oft repeated “joke” stops being funny and becomes passé. Sometimes, other names resurrect. “Bye Felica” made infamous from the 1995 Ice Cube movie Friday had a short resurgence in use with the 25th Anniversary of its release in 2020. It has since died down again but let’s see what happens in a few years at its 30th Anniversary.

Then there are the Karen and Becky and Shaniqua type names each with their own mostly negative archetypes that at best amuse and at worst annoy those that bear the names.  And yes, I do note the lack of equivalent male names here that have not taken a toehold in the way the female names have. An angry white man is an angry white man, but an angry white woman is a “Karen.”

I feel for the innocents who share/bear names with memes. I know a Chad, a Karen, a Linda and a Felicia in real life. I now try to avoid the use of the names in conversation that is not about the actual person out of respect, because I completely get how this Twitter user must feel:   

And all of the above just to say, last night I finally watched the Disney movie Encanto that reminds everyone “We don’t talk about Bruno. No. No. No.”

Now I understand all the annoying TikToks, Facebook posts et al, that have emerged in recent weeks and thus, a new name gets to added to the meme list.

I feel for to all you Brunos out there who will, like Tyrone, hear your name (badly) sung for the future.

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Slice of Life – Tuesday Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

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Fuse

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If there is one thing I have not missed since my fulltime return to office in October it is the daily commute. Door to door, it is an hour and fifteen minutes in the morning; then an hour and a half in the evenings. And that is if it is a straight run, meaning no sick passenger, some idiot somehow running amok in the tunnels, train suddenly going out of service, standard delays, and a host of other things that are the bane of daily commuting.  Especially in the evenings when I hit the height of rush hour where a two-hour run happens at least once a week.

And this was my norm pre-Covid.

Some reports say the trains are less crowded. That more people have chosen to drive their cars in order to avoid as much human contact as possible. That may be true, but I don’t see it, and the huddled masses packed into the trains each day would certainly disagree. After all, less crowded is still crowded. But now it’s crowded in a confined space where it’s a pure leap of faith, and for many the pure need of a paycheck, that the masked people around you are in fact vaccinated and not asymptomatic carriers breathing in the same enclosed space.

There are only two major changes that I can see:

  • Nearly everyone now wears a mask, including the homeless.
  • And nearly everyone seems to have a shorter fuse these days.

Still, I don’t have a problem with going to work. I am just a few very short years from retirement. And after close to a year and a half of remote working, the nearly three hours lost each day to my commute is grating my patience.

I found myself once again explaining “’cides” to a someone who asked for directions when our train went out of service this morning. She was standing considerably less than six feet away from a friend and I, and without a mask. My friend politely asked her to mask up. She did not want to.

Me (snarky to my friend): Then don’t give directions to a murder/suicide.

Woman (angrily): What fuck, I ain’t got nothing.

Friend: When’s the last time you were tested. We don’t know what you might have picked up a couple of days ago that’s can get us sick now.

Woman: Please I’m vaccinated.

Me. Vaccination doesn’t mean you won’t get covid. It only means if you contract it, you’re highly less likely to die from its complications. And you can still be asymptomatic and spread it.

Friend: Your masking up ain’t about protecting us from you, it’s about protecting yourself from us.

Me: If you knowingly refuse to mask up to protect us from anything you make have potentially contracted today that’s homicide. If you refuse to wear a mask to potentially protect yourself from anything we have contracted that’s suicide. We’re not down with either ‘cide. So, mask the fuck up or back the fuck up, or better yet, do both ‘cause we know how to get where we’re going.

We started to walk away to change trains. As I said we knew how to get where we where going. The woman put on her mask and we helped her out.

No, I don’t have a problem with going to work. I’m fine once I get there.

I just have a problem with going to work.

And it’s a little disconcerting to realize that short fuse I talked about sometimes includes my own.

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Slice of Life – Tuesda/y Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

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