i'm staring at my shoes. it's a relief when you're standing and the pudding-thick air in your lungs, recycled from the chests of how many others? begins to be replaced by the stale city air outside the window. the security line is being held up by a bored drone waiting for the clock to climb the everest of the last five minutes so he can fill his cheeks. his lunch never comes — at least not soon enough for me to see it — because as soon as i grow tired of counting the mysteriously un-dyed hairs within the pink crow's nest of the japanese punk girl ahead of me, i'm free. free to hit the elevator and find my way to the waiting room. the hallway smells like stale lysol and behind one of the doors, a man screams at a bureaucrat in russian.
behind me is a worried prim secretary type in a shocking sweater. she chews on her nails and rattles on about her lost cat. the woman in front of me, a strong, earth-loving type consoles her in a way i can't and begins asking me questions about the process, the protocol, the way things work here. i can't think quickly enough to answer half of her questions and it's obvious she is annoyed by this. all i can do is smile and compliment her on her glasses. her answer: i'm from santa cruz. i breathe deeply. the pudding moves.
a man walks in — a black man grinning ear to ear beneath black-out shades studded with rhinestones. even more compelling is his statement: a head-to-toe velvet ensemble with vertical black and white stripes. he is dressed the same way they portrayed escaped convicts on 1950's variety shows. his ethnicity only amplifies this, and his gold chains and gaudy watch (also encrusted in clear lower-tier gems) give him the aura of the most conspicuous fugitive pimp in the courthouse — though i'm sure he has some competition. he loudly proclaims the entire affair a scam and a set-up, then pulls his summons from his pocket, has it scanned by the clerk, and assumes a seat with the rest of us.
fifty-five pages later and a woman with a mullet and suspenders grips the podium and reads a list of names. mine is called, the waiting is over. i am sent home — a day wasted, an over-priced and sour lunch spent wishing i was able to chose from my more comfortable and familiar options. i see the pimp on the way out. he too has been set free by the woman in the suspenders. but did you see that hair? he asks, the last syllable drawn out with three or four consonants that only exist in his mind. i shake and nod my head at the same time as i vacantly try to remember where i parked the bike. he introduces himself and i compliment him on his bold form of social protest. he looks perplexed, so i ask him if he feels nervous wearing prison stripes in a courthouse. at that moment, the relationship between his dress and his given place (i can only assume now that it was a coincidence) dawns on him. he shakes my hand again and flees quickly. he tucks his bag under his arm and slams through the crash bars on the closest fire exit, setting off a screeching electronic alarm on the way out.
Posted by snackfight at July 29, 2003 04:39 PM