summer doldrums

I think it's that irritable portion of the summer. Thunderstorms threaten to arrive, but never do. Drum up some enthusiasm but it quickly melts away. I'm irritable, while people seem, more than ever, to be motivated by their own selfishness, and even the cats sound mean-spirited and grumbly. The day stretches out like an obstacle course, and before the sun sets, very little will change. On a Thursday mornig, I am reminded that sometimes being slightl hungover is its own reward.

And remembering a day in the fall of 1995, my first semester at college. I'm on my way to a 2 p.m. class, and that semester I worked the lunch shift in the cafeteria three times a week. This was before the E/E tandem took over Kittredge on weekday evenings, so it was a somewhat lonely few shifts for me.

A few other students worked there, but the skeleton of the shift was people who should rightfully have been retired or in the state's care, but instead found themselves working breakfast at the high school cafeteria, lunch at the college, with no health insurance and nary a prospect of slowing down. Jehovah's Witnesses, mean old ladies, and middle-aged men who would never find their way out of the closet. There was Tim Brubaker, who was very kind, and very simple. Jon Fowler had Down's syndrome, and he was always inviting us to his wedding, at least 3 times that I can recall. He was easily the best pots and pans guy that kitchen had seen.

I leave the cafeteria, having struggled to end my shift early enough to run down to Drug Mart and still make it to class on time. Minimum wage was $4.25 at the time, if I recall correctly, though it may have been $4.15. I had just made about 9 dollars, before taxes, and wanted to spend a buck-eighty on a pack of marloboro mediums. Few things were as joyous as that post-shift cigarette.

Making my way out of Drug Mart, I turn right on Beall, my hair thick and likely in a pony tail, coarse from the chemicals used to wash down the inside of the salad cart. I am young, angry, and full of contempt. A loathsome person, in short.

Walking towards me in the opposite direction direction is an old man, hunched over, still wearing his food services smock. Shoes worn thin, pants too short. He works at the other cafeteria on campus - I don't know him, but I instantly despise his simplicity, his willingness to wear the smock outside of the kitchen, and his inexplicably happy demeanor. I notice he is stopping occasionally and bending over, and as we get closer to each other, I see that he is picking up trash.

He is picking up trash on his walk home from a shitty job. Trash left by spoiled college kids or goateed men in muscle cars, trash left by people like me, people who instantly despised him for no good reason. As he finally passes me, I shudder and cry, quietly at first but then loudly. To this day, the image of him finds me unexpectedly and leaves me rocking back and forth, confused and ashamed.