Jimmy John’s
Chicago, Memories October 13th, 2009
Today I decide to get a sandwich at the Jimmy John’s I found down the street for lunch. I lock my computer, put on my jacket, grab my book, and set forth to the elevator.
On the ride down, I share a conversation with a fellow from the support team. Small talk ensued:
“Are you from Chicago?”
I respond, “Nah, I’m from Maryland.”
“Isn’t it really cold out there?”
“Yeah, sometimes, but it’s not as cold as it gets here.”
We were about to discuss the current weather (it already feels like winter, where the heck did fall go?!) when we reach the bottom floor and go our separate ways.
I exit the building, walk west on Jackson until I reach the Jimmy John’s. I enter the small vestibule and then attempt to push open the door to the food place actual. It doesn’t budge. I see two young girls ahead of me through the glass pane. They look at me, but to my luck, don’t seem to laugh at my inability to operate a door. I push slightly harder and it finally snaps open. I step forward and give a slight nod, raised eyebrows, and light smirk to flaunt my triumph. One of the girls smiles and I proceed to the line to get my meal.
In line, I look back at the girl, she looks to be in her early to mid 20’s, blonde, and cute. It might be my imagination, but I think she is eyeballing my book, Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger. I start to imagine myself approaching her, saying some witty line about my struggles with doors that seem to have vendettas against me. Instead, I am snapped out of my musing by the cashier who takes my order.
After I pay for and receive my sandwich, I look back and see that the two girls have left. I walk back to the entrance to return to the office and see that one of the girls had forgotten her scarf nearly fallen on the floor, dangling off the lower footholds of the highchair. I exit outside and try to find them walking away, thinking I could catch up to them and bring them their scarf. It takes only a minute and I see them rounding the corner of Jackson and Franklin. I could try to run after them, but I had failed to grab the scarf myself since my hands were full with my book and food.
I stood there outside for a minute thinking I could valiantly rush in, grab the woolen scarf, run after the girls, and return it to them safe and sound. I contemplate the chivalrous nature of going out of the way to return something lost to a beautiful lady. I always wanted to do something impulsive, quixotic even.
I turn in the opposite direction to go back to the office, where I eat my lunch, uneventfully.
Then I think to myself, “Damn.”
Kids Will Remember
Memories March 5th, 2008
Sitting in the far rear of the van, you start to pout. Frustration and anger push you to your boiling point. Your fists are clenched tight as you begin your furious attack and scream, “I want my G.I. Joes! I WANT ‘EM! I WANT ‘EM! I WANT EM!” Your little body starts to spaz out as you flail your little appendages this way and that, yelling for your demands to be met. You pound on the floor, the seats, the window. You lash out as hard you can in an effort to make those who deny you pay.
“THAT’S IT!”
The shout momentarily gives you pause. The van turns. You look out the window and see that you are arriving at some gas station. Everyone else in the vehicle seems to hold their breath, not making a sound, but sensing what is to come next. The van comes to a halt at the lot. The driver exits and stamps around to the passenger door, yanking it open, the loud rolling sound piercing your ears.
“GET OUT! NOW!”
You sit in your seat, trying to register what is going on. You look for aid from those around you, but none will come forward. You slowly unbuckle your seatbelt, your hands quiver at the sudden shift in the emotional atmosphere. You step down from the van and stand still for the next command.
None is given as the driver shuts the door, walks back to the front and starts up the van again. The tears start to come streaming out of your eyes when you begin to see what is going to happen to you. You begin to cry again, not out of frustration, but out of shear fear and the reaction to being ejected.
The van begins to pull away. You continue to stand there and wail, a sad sight with your little TMNT t-shirt, shorts, and tiny OshKosh B’Gosh shoes. You open your eyes to see the van continue on, hoping that they will immediately realize their mistake and turn around.
It goes down a block and then turns the corner, out of view, disappearing from the scene.
Tags: Childhood, Kids, Memory, Punishment
The Young and Innocent
Memories, Personal August 13th, 2007
It’s late in the afternoon on the weekend. Alone in the house, you decided to clear out some of the mess in the rooms. Lots of junk has accumulated there, thrown around in boxes and hidden away in drawers and closets. You need to get rid of the trash anyway as well as prepare for your eventual move to a new place.
You open a drawer which contains a mess of papers, notebooks, and all sorts of litter. You look through them and see that you found a collection of drawings and writings from your childhood.
It really makes you think of the simpler times of your youth… well, not all of your childhood was what you’d like it to have been, but you then yearn for the times where you didn’t have to worry about things like work, money, and the other responsibilities of the world.
You feel the need to just crawl into bed, wrap yourself in your covers, and pretend that you’re shielded from the stress and problems of being an adult. You long to be hugged and embraced, being told that you’re loved and protected from the fears that haunt you. You dreamed of actually smiling innocently, having fun, lost in your naiveness. Heh, how silly and lame are you?, you think to yourself.
A sadness creeps over you when you try to think of anytime where you felt happiness when you were young. But no moment comes to mind. You don’t remember a time where you really loved being a kid. Were you in a rush to be an adult? Or was it filled with things that you forced yourself to forget?
You dig deeper into the pile and find one of your little notebooks that you had to write in in grade school. Looking inside sends you into an even deeper depression. The first subject you wrote about was a trip you took with your family to the aquarem (actually the aquarium, but you couldn’t spell that well at the age of eight). This was well before your parents separated. You look at the other page and see that you also drew a little picture of your family in pencil and crayons: father, mother, you, and your little sister. You laugh a little at how crazy, tense, and awkward it would be if you all get together like that today. Then you just stared at the picture, thinking about how happy you must have been to write about such a memory. And then you felt a rage to tear that book apart and forget that you ever found it.
Trying Something Different
Memories, Personal, Work July 24th, 2007
Looking at the paper you printed off of the computer, you try to find the street that you need to turn onto. You’ve been driving for about three hours now; the traffic up 95-N was worse than you had expected. At first your trepidation about the meeting is increased by your worries about being late, but then you remember that you left early enough to compensate for this type of situation. Driving up to another state for an interview wasn’t really desirable, but you need to look for another job. Getting this one through a friend, you had decided that it was worth a try, despite the distance and time it took to get there from your home. And besides, she works there as well, and it wouldn’t hurt to be employed in the same place as her.
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