Robyn Waselus Exercise 2 1/02/2011 James wasn t a tall person, but he wasn t short either. He was an average size, six foot even, but he walked in a way that made him seem as though he took up more space. He took long, loping strides, and his head was always ducked, as though every ceiling and doorframe were too low for him to pass under. His eyes were so bright that they reflected what he saw, like a green mirror. James needed to go to the grocery store because he had been putting it off for awhile. The thought of all the people, all the cluttered aisles, intimidated him. He thought about having his groceries delivered, but he didn t want to spend the money. He had written a list of everything he needed the night before, hunched over his dining room table, his nose a few inches above the piece of paper. It appeared he was farsighted, but his glasses were for his nearsightedness. His pencil was chewed almost beyond recognition, for every time James couldn t think of something, he bit down on it. He would count the bites, one, two, three, until he thought of what he wanted. He would erase and rewrite things until they were the same size as all the other words on the list. The day of his grocery trip was chilly, with a strong wind. He stood, in the dim light of his dining room, staring at the two jackets he had laid out on his table, one black with a zipper, the other a dark forest green sweatshirt with a hood. If he wore the green jacket, he would have to fix his hair again, and he had spent three minutes carefully combing his sandy blonde, wavy hair into place. Of course, there was still that one patch of hair that never wanted to cooperate, and it was sticking straight up. He reached for his list and wrote hair gel, in his careful cursive
handwriting. Maybe the hair gel would help it stay in place, he thought. He put on his jacket and zipped it. Then he unzipped it. He did this four times. He always had to zip and unzip his jackets four times before they felt right on his body. He reached for his list on the table, and noticed that his jacket barely covered his bony, hairy wrists. Not wanting to change, he decided that the jacket would have to do. He walked down the stairs to his garage. The stairs were covered in oil stains that had been brought in by friends who were too careless to wipe their feet. He wanted new carpet, but he knew he didn t have the money to replace it at the time, so he never looked at the carpet while walking down the stairs. His eyes focused forward, so that he didn t have to come to terms with the stains. He opened the door to the garage, pulling hard, because he had installed an extrastrength lock, but it didn t quite fit the door. He heard the electronic lock click behind him and he opened the garage. It always opened so slowly, creaking, slightly bent in from when his brother drove into it because he was too drunk to notice it wasn t up all the way yet. His truck looked ancient, but it was only about seven years old. A Nissan Frontier, the truck he and his dad had fixed up together. It had been completely totaled on the back, and now it looked like nothing had ever happened to it. He thought of it as truck plastic surgery because the truck remembered being ugly, but now its outside didn t reflect those memories. He got into his truck, the seat fabric worn down and dull, and closed the door. The engine roared to life with the turn of his key, something he was grateful for. The truck didn t always want to cooperate with him. He grasped the shifter firmly and backed out, closing the garage door behind him. If someone were to see him driving along from the outside, they wouldn t give him a second glance. They would see a young man, early twenties, with a big bush of hair and square glasses, driving down the road. They would be able to see all this because his windows had no
tint to them at all. As his truck soared down the freeway, the surrounding cars reflected in his slightly dull, tan truck. He drove with one hand on each side of the wheel, as though he were holding onto someone s shoulders. He got off on the exit, his truck bumping down the off ramp. His favorite part was coming up next, the traffic circle. He made a right, and then had to stop and wait in line. It seemed as though no one knew how to maneuver through traffic circles, besides him. Drivers would stop, glancing around nervously, as though they knew they had never learned to drive in a circle in traffic school. Whose turn was it? They would look accusingly at each other, making hand gestures; sure it was the other person s turn. He always felt like a leader in the traffic circle. James the Great, Captain James, your own personal traffic circle guide. He would go through with ease, his small eyes darting back and forth, just in case someone came out of nowhere. He loved to drive in the circle. Sometimes he would go two or three times, just for the thrill of turning around and around. A small smile would creep onto his lips, and he would feel a rush of adrenaline. The rush quickly died as soon as he got onto the road to wherever he was going. He pulled into the turn lane that lead to the grocery store and observed that there weren t too many people waiting in line, and the parking lot looked rather empty. He let out a small sigh through his nose, his breath tickling his sandy mustache, his fingers relaxing around the steering wheel. His least favorite part was next, the parking lot. He would drive up and down aisles, wanting a spot right in the front, but always missing out on it at the last moment. Finally, he would give up and park way in the back instead. Not today, he told himself. Today he was going to get that perfect spot. He saw it right in front of him, two spaces from the front, the bright
reverse lights like a lighthouse, guiding him toward it. He pulled up behind the car and turned on his blinker, careful to leave enough space for them to get out. He started to sing a little tune, something he had heard on the TV earlier, but his voice always sounded rough and flat, no real melody coming out. He pulled into the parking spot and it felt like he was a little puzzle piece, fitting into the big puzzle. He sat in his car for a few minutes, coming up with a game plan. He zipped and unzipped his jacket quickly, a nervous habit he had, while he thought. He took a deep breath, and regretted it, because his car smelled like stale French fries and really old air freshener. He pulled out his list and wanted to write down air freshener, but couldn t find a pen in his truck. His long right arm momentarily got stuck between his seat and the console while he fished around for a pen, and he sat defeated for a while, with only one arm. He pulled hard and wriggled it free, a scratch appearing on his dried out hand. He checked for blood, but there wasn t any. He had been clenching his shopping list in his hand, and as he laid it flat, he noticed all the wrinkles and dampness from his sweaty palm. Finally, he got out of the truck, locked the door, and shuffled quickly towards the door, hands in pockets to keep him warm. He got inside and blew on his hands to try to warm them up, wiggling his long, skinny fingers quickly. A young woman approached him with an empty cart, dressed in the store uniform. Do you need a cart, sir? I ve got one for you right here. Her cheeks were very round and rosy, and she had long chocolate colored hair. James met her sea blue eyes, but he didn t say anything. He had been thinking about what he was going to get first, and hadn t even heard her.
Excuse me? he asked, his voice low and grave, yet his pitch went up dramatically at the end of the e sound, cracking. Oh, I m sorry, do you not need a cart, sir? the employee drawled, starting to back away. No, he said, louder than necessary, let me have it. The employee pushed it towards him, biting her lip, a questioning look in her eyes. Is there anything I can help you find, sir? No. I have a list. I can do it. Alright, she said, backing away and turning around, glancing over her shoulder one last time. He didn t notice this because he was already contemplating his list, wishing it wasn t so wrinkled. He couldn t make out one of the words he had written under vegetables, and he felt himself start to sweat. What if he couldn t make it out and he got home and realized he really needed the item that had gotten too wrinkled and smudged to read. He wasn t going back out later, that was for sure, but he also couldn t exactly ask someone else to read his handwriting either. He would just have to hope it wasn t too important. He was getting too hot, so he unzipped his jacket and started to pull out one of his long arms. It was stuck in the sleeve and he yanked, his long arm flailing into the wall next to him. It made a soft thud, and a lady nearby looked up at him. He stared at her, unblinking, and she flushed and looked away. The produce aisle was his first stop. He always started at the top of his list so that he never forgot anything. If he skipped around, he may fail to notice something on the list. He wheeled the cart around, the wheels squeaking and clattering. He regarded each vegetable and
fruit as though he was purchasing a work of art, studying it from all angles, looking for flaws. He carefully put each thing in the grocery bag, tying it with a twist tie so it wouldn t escape. Filling his cart was like a game of Tetris. Everything needed to fit in perfectly, the angles matching up, making sure it didn t look incomplete. If something didn t fit into the bottom layer of his cart neatly, it went on top, forming a new layer. Anything in a bag went on top, so that nothing would squish it. He always got the bagged things last, to complete the Tetris cart. He skirted around the perimeter of the store, looking for empty aisles. If there was one that had too many people, he moved on to the next one. If someone was standing in front of something he wanted, he would wait, standing far enough away to not be hovering, until they moved out of his way. After he gathered his items, he went to stand in line at the checkout, picking the line closest to him since he didn t want to weave in and out of the carts waiting in the other lines. He raked his short fingernails through his hair, supporting himself on his cart with his forearm. His eyes itched, but he didn t want to take off his glasses, so he blinked rapidly, hoping that would scratch the itch for him. Sir, sir, I can help you over here. He looked over to the next register seeing the same girl who had given him his cart. If he were to go over to that aisle, he would have to push past all the people behind him. He shook his head back and forth and muttered, I ll stay here. A few people behind him gladly got into the new line, not wanting to wait any longer. When he got to the conveyer belt, he started loading his purchases onto it. This was also like Tetris, where he couldn t just pile everything onto there in an unorganized way. No, he
needed everything to fit together again. He had this down to a science, where he could keep up with the person ahead of him, and not cause any delay. Sometimes the employees commented on his perfect display of his purchases on the belt, but not today. The young checkout clerk, with his short, spiky black hair, and droopy ice blue eyes, just kept his eyes on the scanner, pulling each product across it. James waited, shuffling his feet, staring at the register display, watching the total climb higher and higher. The clerk told him what he owed, and James took out his card, pulling hard since it got stuck in the pockets of his old leather wallet. He could have had any design he wanted on his card, but he chose to just have the generic design. He noticed it expired in three months and tried to make a mental note of this. He swiped it through the machine, hearing the beep. It asked him if the price was correct. Once, he had hit no by accident, and the clerk had looked up alarmed, asking him what was wrong. He had stared at him unblinking, not knowing what he was talking about. Today he hit yes, and then signed his name in his neat, cursive writing. He took the receipt, folded it into fours, and placed it in his jean s back pocket. He wheeled his cart out and unloaded everything into the back of his truck, making sure there was nothing light on top that might blow away with the wind. He wished he could protect his groceries in the inside of his truck, but he only had a front seat, and it would never hold everything. He wheeled the cart to one of the little cart holders and then unlocked his door and got in. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, raked his fingers through his hair, and sat with his eyes closed a moment. His breathing was quick, and he could hear a small wheezing sound out of his left nostril. He sucked in air quickly through his nose, and the wheezing stopped. He turned the key into the ignition, put the truck into reverse, and backed out of his parking space.