Everyday is like Sunday...
Pat halted our Latin lesson to tell me about the government spraying chemtrails over his neighborhood.
"Yeah. Prince believed in them. The government sends helicopters over poor neighborhoods and sprays them with this chemical to keep people stupid and angry. It's why everyone has been so irritable in my neighborhood this week. It's been bad..."
"Ah, sure. Anyway, the fifth declension is..."
"I have to get my bottom surgery done soon, or I'll never get to fly."
"You're having a propeller put in?"
"I want to practice my jiu-jitsu in Brazil and Japan, but I can't get past TSA because my ID says Male and in the naked scanner they'll see that I don't have the appropriate genitalia."
"Appropriate genitalia. Yeah, tell me about it."
"Once they see I don't have a dick they'll pull me out of line and put me in a room where a big two-hundred pound guy will rummage around in my pants. I don't want that."
"I really don't think they'd..." I stopped. "Well, this is TSA we're talking about."
"I'm writing a trilogy about being autistic." Pat proceeded to read four pages of outline to me. It concerned an evil woman with telekinetic powers who projects her evil into a famous writer who writes the books she wants him to write, but then she dies and she haunts him as a ghost as he overcomes her power and the ghost gets angry and writes a tell-all book about the writer before the writer summons his own ghost and the ghosts fight to the death and the evil ghost lady dies again and this time haunts the man's son... I had stopped listening. "What do you think?"
"Uh! It... sounds like it has potential."
"But I can't let my dad know. I have to get a new phone and computer since he's been listening in on everything I say or write. He might even have this whole place bugged, for all I know."
Pat waved upwards. I politely scanned the ceiling.
"Speaking of parents..."
I was off to see Mom. In her living room, she calmed Bingo while I took my usual seat.
"How long are you going to see this Pat person, Greg? I don't like it."
"Latin is a vast subject, Mom. As is genitalia."
"I went over to your brother's to clip his hedges. They didn't know I was coming over, but I called and Chris couldn't even bother to come out to wave hello to me."
"He was probably busy working."
"Well, I was working in his front yard and some college kids drove by and yelled, 'FUCK YOU, YOU FAT BITCH!'"
"Yes, I was so hurt. I went home and cried."
"Wow. I'm really sorry, Mom. That's terrible."
"You know how Dr. Phil says we internalize things that people say to us? That just really hurt for them to say that."
We then talked about the incident further, and Mom started to remember other details.
"There was a girl on a bike going down the street also..."
"Wait. Was she overweight?"
"I don't know. I only got a glimpse of her. I don't know. Maybe they were yelling at her."
"Uh... yeah, maybe they were. Maybe they knew her. Or it was road rage, or something."
"But it still hurt! I was so upset..."
"I know, Mom. I know."
On my way home I got some groceries. I waited in the express lane. Finally, it was my turn and the fat black lady cashier stared at me.
"You reading that smut?"
"Wha..." For an instant I thought she knew about the hours and hours and hours of internet pornography I twirled my inappropriate genitalia to. But then I realized she meant the magazines. US Weekly, et al. She had noticed me idly scanning them as I waited. "Oh, yeah. Terrible stuff."
"Can you believe Taylor Swift is breaking up again?"
"Do you think she'll ever find Mr. Right? And did you hear about Wells Fargo? They were defrauding their customers. Eleven million dollars in phony accounts!"
"Yep. Oh? Yep."
"And you see about Jennifer Aniston? That punk Justin Bieber! And Hilary Clinton, she doesn't look like she can hold up much longer! I like to talk!"
She babbled on even as I was getting my receipt and bag. Then she started on the next shopper.
Everyday is not silent and gray.