"order something"

I wasn't waiting in line to order a drink, but I was humming the Wicked Witch of Wests' theme music to myself, completely lost in it and I guess I wasn't paying attention.  "Are you in line?" a woman asked.  "Sorry.  I am not in line...  Sorry."

"Me'n David"

16 November 2010.

In a recent letter to my friend...

Dear David Sedaris,
Thanks for meeting with me.  Since I don't have much "Formal People-Training" I had to write down what I need to say, otherwise I'd panic, sweat and say something I'd regret.  Thanks for writing all your books.  I have every single one, except for the new one.   Please don't be mad, David, I will get it soon. Your books are the best.  If I wasn't so sure it was true, I wouldn't say it. They make me laugh, cry and sometimes for a few minutes, feel better about myself.  They inspire me to write and one day, publish a book of "Sedaris-inspired" stories and experiences from my life.
Thank you.
Matthew Larson 
Please sign these (books). 

  Written on notebook paper, folded and hiding in my pocket, it was my notes to keep a straight and clear mind when the time came to actually speak to him.  I wasn't sure if I'd actually get to give it to him. In either case, I needed the notes and they would serve me well. 
  I think I was the most nervous there.  -Probably because I was the biggest fan. Everyone else was laughing and telling their own directionless stories about dirty jokes and hearing dirty jokes about camping, puppies and the DMV, as if they were the very celebrity everyone came to see.  Seemed they were all having a pretty good time.  But I still found space in my anxious mind to not like certain people right away.  The man with the microphone, who began giving instructions every ten minutes, said that braking any of David's rules, like picture-taking of any kind, would resulted in the cutting of ones entrance wristband and a firm “goodbye.” Apparently this was hilarious to the over-zealous crowd and they roared with even more laughter every time he'd say, "your wristband will be cut." During the same speech, he'd tell us to read at least a few pages from the new book.  Of course I tried to, but with all the commotion going on, I really couldn't do anything but sit there, be quiet and once in a while smile at the air in front of me to try to fit in.  Physically, I couldn't been more uncomfortable.  I am sure my sweat stains continued down my shirt to the bottom of my ribs.  -A steady flow of gutter stink.  Only when he arrived, did I begin to feel better, smile and accept that hating pretty much everyone around me is not so bad.  He was absolutely wonderful and made everyone, including his hired security, laugh hysterically.  After which, was the time for books to be signed.  To make the signing of countless books go by faster for David, we were instructed to put a sticky tab on the inside title with a name on it so he’d know who to make it out to. If not, he would just sign it. I had brought four books and bought the fifth there because I thought I wouldn't be able to get in without it. Also, everyone had it. That made my total number of books five. At first, all mine had sticky tabs with my name on them.  After seeing people have multiple books with multiple names on them, I decided following the crowd was a better, safer choice. I scratched out my name on the new one, put Paul's and immediately felt like I had just donated a million dollars to some Jerry's Kid's Fund. I let the book sit open, waiting for someone to ask, "Well, who is Paul?"
Borders had some waiting-in-line system for everyone in this event. We all wore a certain colored wristband that would allot one into a certain group that would meet him sooner or later.  I wear a purple wristband, meaning I was one of about one hundred in the second group to meet him.  When the time came to get up and move to our specific waiting locations, a woman wearing a Borders name tag and a big dress, excitedly let her emotions get the best of her as she threw the whole "wristband" system out the window like it was a dragon puppy that needed freedom over captivity. So, we lined up by who was closest to him.  I was in the middle of the second row.  They moved the podium off the table he spoke from, gave him a comfy chair and a box of cinnamon rolls to pick at while the next few hours slowly rolled by.  I stood in line, moving a few feet every few minutes.  I could barely breath comfortably and kept looking at the girl next to me to see if she was exhibiting anything near what I felt.  How could all these people be so calm, I thought.  When the girl in front of me walked up to his table I felt as if someone made stool in my pants. The woman beside him took my books to prep for him to sign just as the girl left his table.  I walked up, put my bag down and leaned over the table as if I were interrogating him. Not intentionally, though. 

David:  Hey! How are you tonight? 


Matthew:  I'm good.  I'm good.  I am real nervous, you know?

David:  Are you Matthew?

Matthew: Yeah, that's me.  I'm real nervous.  I am not real good with people.  I don't talk much. 
(At this time I pulled out my letter/ lines because I knew if I didn't, I would just gush. And I don't think David wanted me or anyone to just gush).

Matthew: (From letter) Thank you for seeing me.  I think your books are great.

David:  (Who was working on a drawing of a puppy dog for me in the book as part of signing, which I find kind of ironic because that is probably how I seemed to him)  Does that?...Oh no.  That's a terrible dog. The eye is way to big and in the wrong place...

Matthew:  No, I think its great!

David:  But that eye...( and he draws another)

Matthew:  Well, I think it looks good. 

David:  (grabs the book for Paul) So, who is Paul?

Matthew:  Oh, he is my best buddy and we have known each other since we were three and now we live together and its great!

David:  So what do you do Matthew?

Matthew:  Oh, I'm in graphic design! ...But I also write..


David:  Cool! Where?

Matthew ...Herald Washington?

David: (who is working on a drawing of a turtle in another book)

Matthew:  Yeah, I really like to write.

David:  What do you write about?

Matthew:  Stories and experiences from my life.

David:  What’s that? (Pointing to my Idea Journal I had so conveniently placed for him to see and ask about)

Matthew: Oh this?  That is my Idea Journal.  For writing.

David:  What's the last thing you wrote?

Matthew:  Oh, just some of my fears.  Bunions, getting diarrhea in class and dandruff. 

David:  (He chuckles) What do you fear about bunions?  I have some experience 
with bunions, you know.

Matthew:  (pointing at him like we are having a best-pals-moment) I know! I remember you writing about that... Ha-ha…?

David:   Yes, I remember.  What do you fear about bunions?

Matthew:  ...I don’t know. Bumping them? Hurting them, minding them? What do you do?  

David:  I just ignore them. 

Matthew:  But...don't you have to be careful?

David:  No, Matthew. 

Matthew:

David:  So you got a joke for me, Matthew?

Matthew:  Uh…well, my roommate has this one joke that is kinda.  Uh…So, what’s worse than stepping is dog crap?

David: (smiling at me, waiting for the big line that will knock his socks off) I don’t know. What is worse?

Matthew: Waking up in the middle of the night to have someone angrily taking a dump in your mouth.

David:  (looking to the helper woman to his right for agreement pity, for me) Wow, that is worse. (Then a breathy, pity laugh).

Matthew:  Yeah, my roommate. He is a crazy guy.  (Had this actually been a joke of Paul’s, it probably would have been good, have substance and really be a joke, rather than an obvious realization of just a truly bad moment.  But, it was mine and I am damn proud of that joke).
We all laughed uncomfortably together, gradually becoming more and more aware of each others nonexistent awareness of social boundaries.  -As if someone reputable, like the President, told a hilariously racy joke.  What do you do then?  Do you laugh?  Yes.

David:  So, what do you do, Matthew? (For the second time)

Matthew:  Oh, I’m in school for graphic design…I write too.

David:  How do you make money?

Matthew:  I have it saved up.  I used to work for…Starbucks.  (Which is true.  But, also what the everyone wants to hear)

David:  Oh.  I am defiantly not opposed to going to …Starbucks.

Matthew:  …Yeah…

David:  Are you poor, Matthew?

Matthew:  …No.

David:  You know, Matthew, I like this stuff. These (cinnamon rolls) are so good, but you know, you can only eat so many before you feel sick.

I shook my head to show I agreed with him, but inside I knew perfectly well my ability to easily clean up, even a six-pack of sugar buns, cinnamon rolls, silly buns, sticky cinnamon big buns, what have you, was unsurpassed.  He then folded the box closed and placed it gently in a clear plastic bag Borders provided. As he slid them across the table, explaining that he wanted me to have them, enjoy them and live, my heart raced liked the victim of a rabid dog.  It got really hot all of a sudden and I knew this was my moment to relish this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

Matthew: Okay, since you are giving me your big cinnamon sugar buns, I think it would be fair for you take my letter.

I folded it back up and flicked it across the table like a frisbee. He smiled and put it in a little pile with other nick-knacks near the edge of the table. I grabbed the bag, similar to the way a man, sans friends and shelter would if a can of beans rolled in a trashy gutter, where he reined.

At the same time, Matthew: You know, this is so great!  Before you, the famous person I met was a weatherman!  (Paul Magers for Minneapolis weather and before that, Donny Osmond)


The two of them shared a genuine chuckle I will remember forever. No one can take that from me.  I made David Sedaris laugh, probably out of compassion for my bad joke and nervous behavior.  Me, who he thinks probably only took his lips off the end of a barrel and climbed out of the dumpster just to take a bus and a train to see him, David Sedaris, famous writer.  Celebrity.
As I headed out, walking passed all the eagerly, bushy-beavery waiting semi-fans, I smiled with pride, hating everyone I could see.  “Awe, you got David’s cinnamon buns, you lucky duck!”  
I accepted their jealousy, smiled and firmly implied, "Goodbye!"

That's Par

I got on the train the other morning and smelled taco meat. 
But I bet there were no tacos or meat.

I thought it quite ironic listening to a homeless man in the subway play and sing Michael Jackson's, "Man in The Mirror," on guitar. 
It kind of angered me.  It was no justice.

As I entered the train to go home yesterday, a man sitting down by the doors who had on an old black  suede jacket, droopingly sat, his head bobbing but awake. On the left breast of his old jacket was a generous proportion of refunded vomit. Looked like oatmeal and carrots poorly blended together with dirty fingernails and maple syrup.  I can only assume it was vomit, but if he's the healthy type who makes blended drinks/meals to keep from spending easy money on fast and unhealthy food, more power to him. 
But, he probably isn't.  And I enjoy assuming.
Thanks Chicago.