Part of my job here at THE PAPER involves running errands. Which sometimes consists of picking up photos of dead people from their grieving relatives. Sometimes minutes after the family just got the news. I just now got back from picking up a photo of an old guy who was murdered: I called and got directions from a woman, a member of the family, who let out an exasperated 'pshht,' when I asked her to repeat part of the directions. When I got on the road I realized the directions sucked. I drove around for fifteen minutes. Long enough where I thought it warranted making some smart remark to the woman when I got there. I rationalized making a smart remark by thinking that 'my telling her her directions sucked would benefit the next press person who came out to pick up a photo.' But really, I was just being a bitch. I practiced what I would say. I wanted to be concise. I wanted it to sink in: "Those directions were horribly wrong," I could say. 'No. Not very striking. Wouldn't make an impact,' I thought, as I drove through subdivisions where dogs had dug holes in the dirt and were sleeping in them to stay cool. 'I could just change one word and say, "These directions are incredibly wrong," If I could say it as if I used the word 'incredibly' in that capacity all the time, that'd be perfect.' I found the house, got out of the truck and rang the bell. This beautiful, understated, earthy woman about my age answered the door. Her smile was just too…I dunno…it wasn't the smile of someone who's dad had just been murdered. At least that's not what she was thinking about when she smiled at me like that. She was skinny but had a voluptuous body, hidden under what could be deemed a "frock" (is that right? Like a Holly Hobby style thing?) I studied her body as she led me to the living room and the rest of the family. I expected her to grab my hand when she led me into the livingroom. It was definitely an old person's house. One whole wall of the house was covered, top to bottom, with derby hats. Various browns. It looked like a geriatric art installation. A good one.
A woman about 35 was sobbing on the phone. There were four other family members there. I was still studying the woman who'd led me into the house. Yes, I felt bad for wanting to sleep with this woman amidst the grief of the family (a grief which she didn't seem to share in) but what are you gonna do…?. She went and sat next to the sobbing woman on the phone. I almost followed her. That would have been embarrassing. I was fixated. In the background I heard the two oldest family members say something about Indiana Jones. I vaguely thought, "they're talking about his hat." Then she smiled at me again. It was a ripe smile. Jesus, we were flirting in the middle of a mourning session. How tasteless. God, I wanted her even more after she'd displayed such utter lack of good taste. We could be tasteless together, her and me. Finally, I'd found someone who would understand. Someone who might laugh if I described her body on the internet. Her exasperated "pshht" earlier, on the phone, was no longer, in my opinion, the onomotopia of a bitch: but rather, a symbol of her intolerance for ineptitude. "Oh," I wanted to cry out, "I have that too, that intolerance for ineptitude. All these idiots around us. We could...we could...we could display incredible amounts of intolerance for ineptitude together, you and me." And the way she looked: like I said, understated. I felt like a genius for noticing how beautiful she was. Like I discovered her. Maybe no one else in Hollywood will ever catch on, but I will dedicate my life to trying to make her a star. Then I realized the older couple presently were trying to put the picture I had come for, in my hands. "Should we give him the Indiana Jones one?" the old woman said. "No, no…" The old man trailed off. Hearing him trail off reminded me of the gravity of the situation.
"Uh yeah," I stumbled like a newborn baby bird, "Right, sorry about your…we'll have this back to you…o.k…um…" My tasteless love nodded at me and smiled once more. I left. I still have their phone number in my breast pocket and I can't bear to throw it away. Strange things always happen when I get anywhere near people grieving. One time I had to sit through a whole funeral just to pick up a picture for THE PAPER. I could have just walked up snapped my own photo of the guy laying there in his coffin in the time it took waiting around. It was O.K. though, because the family were like, partying at the funeral. Which is exactly how I want my funeral to be, if there's anything left of me to display after I'm eaten by the shark. Because I know that's how I'm gonna go. Shark attack. And I will love it. I love sharks. If I had what the hippies call a "spirit animal," I would have two: one would be the shark. The other would be the high school cheerleader (those are amazing animals too). I am going to get married in a shark cage in Australia. My bride will hold a bouquet of raw bloody meat. She may be a high school cheerleader as well.
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Great Minds in the Commonplace