Monday, December 15, 2008

The Friday Martyr

Friday was a bit of a shit day for me. Allow me to explain. All week, I’d been boasting to people about how many things I’d been invited to on the 12th, so when the time came to begin my rounds, I’d firmly decided on two: Lanita’s housewarming/end-of-semester tutor get-together and Ben and Katy’s Christmas Sweater party. Since both were last minute decisions, Gilda and I dashed to Ross in fruitless search of a sweater and then to HEB for Christmas cookies before going to Lanita’s South Austin home. I was obnoxious with energy and bounced in my seat until we reached stand still traffic on I-35. After 45 minutes of stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, stop, go, my excited energy converted to seething impatience. To aggravate my condition, a work truck full of pachucos, I unfortunately kept pace with, rudely stared at Gilda not just with subtle eyes, but craned necks and pursed mustached lips. When I stared like a challenging dog at the driver, he stared challengingly back, and I imagined myself choking his dirt-ringed neck. Due to my fondness for geology, I had a heavy limestone clam fossil and smooth river rock within reach, and I thought if opportunity should allow traffic to completely stop, I’d pull the emergency brake, get out of my car, and launch one at a window of their truck. Gilda, oblivious to my testosterone struggle, had recognized my psychological distress and had fallen silent from her endless chatter. I apologized, and we left the highway and into downtown to find Tesoros Trading Co. instead of the housewarming. It wasn’t where it used to be, so we walked across the Congress bridge to find the new location. It was too far, and on the way back, a homeless woman held up her middle finger at me as we passed each other over Town Lake. She was an old black lady with a leathery face, a wide frown, and a green wool cap on her head. Maybe you know 'er. Anyway, her middle finger was long and clearly directed at me. Regardless, I innocently pointed to myself. She nodded affirmatively and went on. Gilda laughed as though she’d lost her mind. I looked back at my antagonist, and she had already passed another pedestrian. I held up a baffled middle finger at him, and he nodded in the same fashion the old woman had. Gilda went into further hysterics.
We were held in northbound traffic on the way home, and eventually stopped at several more places in search of ridiculous sweaters. I hate shopping. It’s like being in traffic or Hell. We didn’t find any that weren’t 40 dollars, and I was sick of going half way to places, so we gave up and went home. Gilda fed me a bottle of beer and cooed me until my four-hour hot flash subsided, and I went to bed like an exhausted baby with nothing accomplished.
The only exceptional thing about Saturday was Milk. I highly recommend it. It was an important film of a shushed and unfinished chapter of American history. Granted, I didn’t do any research on the historical facts, but the actors were held up to the real people at the end, and they looked just like them, so I assume everything else is true.
Sunday was as Sunday always is: pious, and I worshipped myself all day. The only change was the knowledge that ACC’s out for the holidays, and I’m needing some foldin’ money.


Bash said...

You missed a public outing by the guitarist of Lethal Injection... a short stint.

C. Andres Alderete said...

Yeah, he's been doing short stints since he fell out the glory days of Seawolf.

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