 |
Hurry Up and Wait©2003 David Boyne |
|---|
Sometimes, I think about the Time-Space Continuum.
Like yesterday morning.
As I stood in line at my neighborhood café, the thin, dark haired woman
in gray sweat shirt and pants ahead of me was having a conversation with
the voluptuous, dyed-blonde barrista in a tight black tank top and tight
black jeans. The two women were talking about a mutual friend.
The voluptuous dyed-blonde barrista said, "She's 26 and she's had like,
you know, the same boyfriend since she was 16."
The dark haired woman used two syllables to say, "N-o."
The blonde barrista answered in two syllables, "Ye-ah." Then she continued,
"I mean it's like I can never get her to hang out. She's just into her
boyfriend."
"You know what it's like," the dark haired woman said, leaning over the
counter. "It's like you're in a relationship so deep your bodies just seem to move
together."
The blonde barrista paused, thinking about that. "But ten years with the
same guy?" She folded her arms under her full breasts and frowned. "She
doesn't know what she's missing. You know?"
The dark haired woman said, "Hey, if it works for her. You know?"
There was a man in line behind me and I could feel his impatience. I glanced
back and saw him frown at the two talking women. He shot a glance out
the windows of the café, to a large white van that was illegally parked,
then looked at the watch on his wrist, then frowned harder at the two
still-talking women.
Although I really, really wanted my first uber-sized cup of black coffee
of the day, I also really, really liked listening to the two women talk
about their mutual friend's romantic fate. I envied how they adroitly
examined and evaluated the pros and cons of finding—and sticking
with—good love at age 16.
I confess I also liked watching the voluptuous dyed-blonde barrista because
the tight black tank top she wore was very short and displayed an expanse
of her round belly and the ski-slope curve of the small of her back and
the swell of her ample hips—and all the tan skin exposed was adorned
with a colorful tapestry of tattoos.
As the barrista slow-waltzed behind the counter, preparing an elaborate
chocolate and coffee and cinnamon and whipped-cream concoction for the
dark haired woman, I was mesmerized by the rising and falling and swaying
tattoos on her belly and hips—and I began, very quietly, to sing
the Groucho Marx version of the old song, Lydia the Tattooed Lady. (*song lyrics )
I could feel the guy behind me practically running in place with frustration—but
I was happily entranced, watching the blonde barrista's swaying tattoos,
and taking great delight in the way she and the dark haired woman embedded
complex philosophical syllogisms in a meaning-laden rise and fall of intonation
when they said the two words, "you know?"
The guy in line behind me became a super-charged dark storm of tension.
He kept shifting his feet, cracking his knuckles, looking out the windows
at the illegally parked van, then back at the slow-motion dyed-blonde
barrista and chatty dark haired woman.
At the same time I was repulsed by this guy, by his menacing, bristling
energy, I also felt compassion for him. I thought, There, but for the
grace of natural and nurtured indolence, go I.
Then the dark haired woman customer left the café. It was my turn. I stepped
up to the counter. But instead of ordering my coffee I told the dyed-blonde
barrista, "Your friend is lucky. Finding love at 16 is better than getting
married and divorced three times."
The barrista didn't miss a beat. "My neighbor, his name is Lucky," she
said. "This week he's getting married for the sixth time."
Having not had any coffee yet, I struggled to keep up with the hyper-topic-jumping barrista,
and also struggled to keep my gaze from impolitely staring at the tattoos
swirling around her outy belly button. I managed to say, "Um. Married six times?
That can get expensive."
"Lucky has money. He collects disability or something. You know? And he
owns his house and has all these guns and he has this really giant TV.
My roommates and me can stand on our porch and see right through Lucky's
front window and watch his TV, it's that big."
By this time, the impatient guy behind me was so crazily revved up with
urgency—yet stifled by the threat of years in jail if he were to
murder me or the dyed-blonde barrista—that I thought he might spontaneously combust.
I could have cued the barrista to stop talking and dole out my coffee.
But I didn't.
"So Lucky lives alone now?" I asked, banking that my leading question
would propel the narrative-dispensing barrista into relating more tales
from Lucky's World.
"Yeah. Sometimes his son comes over. He watches the house when Lucky goes out
of town. Lucky travels a lot. The son watches porn on the giant TV. My
roommates and me we all go out on the porch and spy on him. It's a riot.
When he hears us laughing he instantly changes the channel to a basketball
game!"
The guy in line behind me shot out of the café.
The barrista and I turned to watch through the window as he jumped into
the illegally parked white van—which is when I noticed the side of
the big van was painted with the logo and slogan of a local easy-listening
radio station—started the engine in a roar, and accelerated violently
into his future.
The dyed-blonde barrista indifferently filled a large cup of black coffee
for me. I put a dollar in her tip jar, took my coffee outside, found a
seat under a big shade tree, sipped my coffee, still humming Lydia the
Tattooed Lady, and thought about the Time Space Continuum.
* Lydia
the Tattooed Lady
Music by Harold Arlen. Lyrics by E.Y. Harburg
Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
and a torso even more so.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is The Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it, The Wreck of the Hesperus too.
And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
When her robe is unfurled she will show you the world,
if you step up and tell her where.
For a dime you can see Kankakee or Paree,
or Washington crossing The Delaware.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
When her muscles start relaxin',
up the hill comes Andrew Jackson.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of them all.
For two bits she will do a mazurka in jazz,
with a view of Niagara that nobody has.
And on a clear day you can see Alcatraz.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
Come along and see Buffalo Bill with his lasso.
Just a little classic by Mendel Picasso.
Here is Captain Spaulding exploring the Amazon.
Here's Godiva, but with her pajamas on.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
Here is Grover Whelan unveilin' The Trilon.
Over on the west coast we have Treasure Isle-on.
Here's Nijinsky a-doin' the rhumba.
Here's her social security numba.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Champ of them all.
She once swept an Admiral clear off his feet.
The ships on her hips made his heart skip a beat.
And now the old boy's in command of the fleet,
for he went and married Lydia!
I said Lydia...
(He said Lydia...)
They said Lydia...
We said Lydia, la, la!