(23 ramadhan 1426) serial times, pt 4

The Pkg

(continued from before...)

I sat on the bench and tried to keep grasp of the earth around me. I was flying and fearful that if I didn’t hang on, I was just going to float away. Blurred visions of clear images rushed by, dodging the clear visions of blurred images, much like the scenes in that old arcade game called “Frogger”.

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I kept looking to my left for the approaching No. 232, but it still wasn’t showing up. I was getting impatient as the laced ganja began really to dig in its talons. I was alternately sure that there was no way I could keep my eyes open and that the cars on Sepulveda couldn’t be going any more slowly.

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I also began to notice that I was getting the munchies:

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A cheeseburger from Carl’s Jr. fast food burger joint.
A mango, orange, and strawberry smoothie from Robek’s smoothie shop.
A piece of tiramisu from Starbuck’s coffee house.
A steak from Western Sizzlin’ restaurant.
Pringle’s Salt & Vinegar potato chips and a Sunkist orange soft drink from Ralph's supermarket.

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(I wondered at something similar in each of those last five thoughts: does every popular eating establishment in SoCal have to have an ‘s in its title? Anyway...)
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I was practically drooling at this point. All of the above were within a five minutes’ walk from where I sat and I really began to get irritated that the bus hadn’t come yet. I still wasn’t sure I trusted my sense of time, but I knew that I was getting ruffled, nonetheless, from waiting.

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I looked down at my socks and, without warning, the urgency with which I thought I’d needed socks began to deliquesce. Did I really need any more pairs of socks? Weren’t three or four pair enough for a grown man? And if I really did need socks, did they HAVE to be adidas? And if they HAD to be adidas, wasn’t adidas a global brand that I could get in any country, including the one for which I would be taking off in several hours?
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I wrestled with this for a few moments. I really wanted adidas socks. I’d had the same style of adidas socks for over a year without having bought any new ones and I’d really been looking forward to buying some new ones with a subtle change in the style. However, it dawned on me that I was being high-maintenance.

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Who the hell cared about the style or fashion of my damn socks? Why was this an obsessive-compulsive burr under my skin? If I were going to be obsessive-compulsive, why couldn’t it be about porn or something?

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I was still wrestling with this when two things occurred to me nearly instantaneously: there was a Kinko’s 24-hour copy center nearby and the bus still hadn’t come by.

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Believe me, these two thoughts were less mutually exclusive than they might at first appear, and gave way to the following equation:
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If, 1) the damned bus wasn’t going to come by any time in the next millennium, 2) there were a Kinko’s nearby, and 3) I didn’t need to upgrade my adidas socks, then 4) why was I continuing to sit on that bench for no reason?

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The answer, of course, was easy: the pkg. Today was all about sacrifice and attrition, all for the sake of the pkg and my future, not present, relationship with it.
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I fleetingly thought, “To hell with it. I’m too damned lazy and I don’t feel like traipsing around the west side of Los Angeles in order to mail something illegal.”

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I was flying and all I wanted was some munchies and sleep.

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The thought that Kinko’s was nearby and the fact that in a few days I’d be praising Shiva that I’d paid the band so as to have some music by which I’d later be able to dance made me curse myself for the preceding blasphemous, fleeting though it was, thought of not sending out that pkg.
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I decided then and there that I needed to get up at that very moment and walk to Kinko’s, where I knew I’d be able to send out the score.

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I got up and continued my journey.

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(to be continued...)