Waiting for the bug man. Can't eat until he's come and gone. Can't do anything. I understand the necessity, but I still resent these quarterly intrusions. Sweeping, vacuuming, tidying. Trying to make my place (and myself) presentable. Take down the curtain from the mirror. Wash a few dishes, hide the rest in the oven. Wipe away the crud from the stovetop.
Nice fellow, Bug Man. Friendly, efficient. He's in, he's out: two minutes, tops. Much ado about nothing, really. Why do I care what this guy thinks? Why do I care what anyone thinks?
I'm a flea market guy: I want to buy, I want to sell. I want to be out there in the sunlight and dust, but I cower at home in the dark. People. Out there. Why do I care what they think?
A pretty girl with auburn hair and a Boston Terrier appears below my balcony in the morning as I sit there watching birds. She doesn't seem to know I'm there. What would she think if she happened to glance up my way?
The shabby Goodwill clothes: He looks like a hobo!
The scruffy crazy-old-man beard: He looks like a terrorist!
The Spots: He looks like . . . My God, what is that horrible thing?!
Maybe. Maybe not.
Maybe she's as sweet as she appears. Maybe not.
People. Out there. In my head.
Why do I care what they think?
Why must I care what they think?