Space Invaders

Far from the realm of agoraphobia, I do value my personal space. A troubling quirk sometimes. Not trouble for me, but trouble for others. If I’m in line, I prefer to keep a distance equal to the length of a person of average height lying lengthwise—dead or not—between me and another. It’s not that I don’t like people. On the contrary, I relish close human interactions. I am one of those touchy-feely people who kiss friends and family hello, goodbye, and in-between. I balk when strangers invade my space.

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18 February Barnes & Noble

I was there to buy some stuff. The checkout line at B&N is set up like this: you enter on the right, then wait for the next available clerk to call you to complete your transaction. You exit left. While waiting, you browse the infinite display towers deciding whether to purchase another thingy that you might find useful or giftable.

A clerk calls me to her register. I lay my merchandise before her. Then, from the left— the non-entrance left—a peculiarity of a man my age approaches and stands inches beside me, fumbling with a coin purse. I decide to pay him little mind as I perceive his invasion as friendly social ineptitude. Thirty seconds elapse. He’s still there. The creep-o-meter is dialed near maximum. So, I calmly ask without looking at him, “Why are we standing so close to one another? “

He responds boldly and defensively, “You’ll figure it out!”

I close with, “But I’m asking you for your assistance with the question, so I don’t have to figure it out.”

He backs away.

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19 February

Karen and I are seated in a small booth ordering breakfast in the always crowded, always good café whose sign reads, Annie’s Old Fashion Pancake House. You read that right, “Fashion.” No E. No D. I’m not sure what constitutes old-fashioned pancakes. I doubt the recipe has changed over time. They got the spelling right on the menu, however. But not this coupon.

A mother, father, and child sit in a booth across from us. Not yet sure if the child is a boy or a girl. The family is across and behind me a little. They are across and in front of Karen a little. I hear a portable television emanate from their space. I hear loud television voices. I hear loud cartoon television voices. I am nonplussed (I think). I’m not sure what that word means. I’ve been using it incorrectly for years.

Bewildered, yes. I think annoyed is more accurate. Not just because the noise is more than inappropriately disturbing, but because I feel shame for the parents. Really, you can’t have a family meal without your child being connected to an alternate medium?

Then I wonder if Autism plays a role. I turn my head and espy the child. Nope. She’s just a brat with out-of-touch parents.

A few minutes later, Karen catches up. She’s glaring at the nuisance. “I was wondering when you would notice,” I said.

I watch Karen’s intense, beautiful, and naturally sculpted eyebrows provide support for her icy-blue eyes, focused like daggers on the targeted family. She states what is obvious (the unacceptable behavior). I decide not to intervene. She doesn’t either. But I know she secretly hopes the clueless parents overhear her repetitive, audible judgment. Frankly, so do I. I’m not in the mood to voice my opinion.

Thankfully, management finally and soon tells the family about their error, and the device is silenced.

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I am waiting to pay the bill at the crowded front counter of Annie’s Old Fashion Pancake House. I have provided a little more than two feet of space between myself and the woman in front of me, who is poised to pay her tab. A woman behind me then nudges me. I turn around and look directly… over her head. She is 5-foot-zero at most. Then I look down and meet her eyes. She asks impatiently, “Are you in line to pay your bill?”

I confirm that I am. She challenges me. “Then why don’t you move forward?”

I look down at her minimalist stature and announce peacefully, “Because I don’t want to bump anyone. I respect people’s privacy. And I respect their space… I’m just not a pusher, ma’am.”

She stopped.

Until she inadvertently bumped me after I paid my bill in her effort to storm the cashier.

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After breakfast, we head to a fresh market, where you can get the best quality and best prices on produce. Produce I’ve not even seen before. How does one incorporate cactus into a diet anyway?

When Karen returned the shopping cart to its corral to receive her quarter-dollar deposit, she noticed a bizarre, disheveled man whom she thought might be mute, as she told him a few times that he could just take her cart rather than pay a quarter to unlock another one.

Eventually, he proved not to be mute. After handing Karen a quarter, he announced in a voice so booming it was audible to me fifty feet away, “Ma’am, you need an occupation… trickery!

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Yesterday

I took out a loan so I could buy a pack of cigarettes. Don’t ask me what they cost per pack. I’m embarrassed. I’m an addict, and I hate it. Please don’t judge.

After entering the gas station/mini mart where no one knows my name but all know my face, and what I want without me having to ask, I created a wider berth than usual between the person at the counter and me.

Another man entered and positioned himself to my left and slightly ahead of me. I said nothing as I waited. A few seconds later, a synapse fired in his brain, and he said, “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re in line?”

“Good boy,” I said, but only internally. I confirmed with a nod and an abridged grin. He slid behind and to my right.

“One,” I said to the clerk as she reached for my brand. It’s not often I purchase only one, but I’m trying to trick myself that I’m quitting, and that’s all I need to get through this fix for what I hope is my last, but I know better.

I look at the box of beef jerky sticks on the counter and recall that it was an addiction as a teen, but the price, while not as outrageous as the one I’m prepared to be debited, is at least something I’ve tamed.

“Do you want the receipt?, she asks.

“No.” That’s like asking a person who witnessed a car accident if they’d like to see the victim’s severed limbs.

After exiting, I saw a youngish man on his knees who looked like a messier version of Keanu Reeves, fishing for smokable cigarette butts in the exposed receptacle of a smoker’s urn. I wondered if he was as curious as I was about where the monthly increases in cigarette tax revenue are distributed.

I sat in my truck with the door open as he walked away with three scavenged partials. He was the first person in a week I hoped would come near me. When he was within a foot, I said, “Would you like a real cigarette?”

He did and approached. “Is menthol, okay?,” I asked.

I unwrapped my new pack, pulled a cigarette out, and handed it to him.

“Do you have a real lighter?,” he asked

I handed him a sky-blue Bic. He lit, returned the lighter, thanked me, and offered a fist bump. Our knuckles met. His tattooed, and mine naked.

This is the actual Smoker’s urn that Neo’s doppelgänger disassembled to expose the heap of discarded butts. Two things are certain. If a young man who I don’t think was homeless is willing to go to such lengths, cigarettes are way too expense and way too addictive.