Ta-ta

A thought that I've had time and again, and finally felt like sharing. Goodbye? More like badbye!

"Goodbye," the bagger had said to me, an $8 an hour smile beaming from her semi-attractive--but woefully oh so young--face. I nod back to her---we'll swap phone numbers when you really mean it, sweetie, and probably when you're a couple of years older--until then, don't bother with the fake pleasantries.

 

I carry my precariously packed parcels outside and into the parking lot. I soon discover that a car is following me, swiftly followed by another. I like how that second card tailgates so intently, as if he would actually get the desired parking space. Sorry bud, I muse to myself, but in the automobile jungle two rules apply: one, bigger cars get right of way, and two, the car in front is the Alpha, and Alpha gets what Alpha wants.

 

But this time the joke's on both of them. I walk home.

 

Just a block or so later, my cell phone rings. I balance the foodstuffs down on a conveniently located mailbox and reach for my phone. It's Mumsie.

 

Yes, yes, I'm well. No, I am kind of busy. No, I'm carrying food from the store. No, it's just the normal job stress, nothing more. No need to worry.

 

What?

 

Oh yes, and a Happy Valentine's Day to you, too.

 

Click.

 

I still feel a twinge of pride at still having a flip-open cell phone with an antenna. You know, the old telescoping ones. If only I had the old 80s brick phones. Or even better, those wind-'em-up WWII backpack phones. Now that would be awesome. Literally, it would cause veneration and dread before the authority that is my Pre-Retro. That and old-school boom boxes. If you're going to broadcast obnoxious music around you, at least have the style to do it loudly. Pissy earphones just don't cut it.

 

The minuscule screams of delight coming from the throats of millions of bacteria remind me that I have unrefrigerated meat in my hands, so I slip my phone away where it can continue to give me a free vasectomy, grab my things, and continue on my way.

 

Mentioning Valentine's Day reminds me that the holiday was originally invented by the Church to keep the massive spring orgies to a minimal. Nowadays, V-Day carries with it the same connotation as it did for the Greatest Generation: victory. Only instead of that being triumph over the original Axis of Evil now it refers to successfully pulling off a mass invasion into the heavily guarded trenches of the other person's pants. And on second thought, doesn't wishing Valentine's Day to one's own mother sound rather Oedipal...

 

Oh look, I'm home.

 

Well, by home, I mean to me, myself, and about fifty-two other tenets. Out in front are Ralphy-boy and his friends, trying to be skater-boi's. And failing. But that's alright; the world in twenty year's time needs a new host for Jackass.

 

"Hey!" they yell, and I wave from behind my Great Wall of paper-packed food. I don't exactly feel like "hangin" so I kick the gate door open and start to shuffle inside, all while trying to keep my sustenance and roommate-peace-offerings from spilling out everywhere. My jeering audience applauds and yelps as I struggle with my juggling act, but when I finally turn to look I see that all the commotion is over little Jimmy having unsuccessfully attempted to fly his 'board like a jet ski---which doesn't even make any sense, but then again do most of the skateboard tricks?

 

Through my sheer good luck and well-timed kicks at the spring-loaded door and some begotten miracle from [Insert Deity Here] I make it through unscathed. As the door clangs shut the boys suddenly notice me again.

 

"Seeya later!" they holler at me by default.

 

Just then one of the bags start to tip and fall forward, thereby forcing me to follow after it so I can catch it by letting it conveniently fall back onto me.

 

Tony Hawk should award me for some of the tricks I have to do.

 

With everything balanced, or as close enough as I can get, I make my way down the hallway leading to my apartment. Thank the stars I'm at least on ground level. I didn't want to play the otherwise daily elevator game "Is that smell bad Febreze, good Axe deodorant, or piss?"

 

Half-way down the hallway I spy old Mr. Mc-FuddyDuddy-Mannen heading in my general direction.

 

"Ho there!" he declares, a genteel gentlemen leaning forward on his cane. "Long days and pleasant nights to ya."

 

"And may you have twice the number," was the proper reply, or so he kept badgering on every time someone just said, "Um, you too," not knowing what else to say. I simply nod, and I really mean it, although it was doubtful he even saw it through the results of my latest raid on Food4Less.

 

Nevertheless, he passes me by without further ado, clearly bent on some quest. Maybe he could see after all. I don't dwell on it though, if he wished to say it aloud he could have, and frankly I just remembered I also bought milk and that I don't really like yogurt.

 

Farther down the hall (the price for the convenience of ground level---the inconvenience of being at the very end of the hall) somebody has left their door ajar.

 

"-you tomorrow, hon."

 

Pause.

 

"Yeah, at the usual place."

 

Slightly shorter pause.

 

"Huh? No, no, just tell him you got stuck in traffic, that's all."

 

Slightly longer pause.

 

"Yeah, okay. See you then. Farewell."

 

The rest, and there was more (there always is with lovers) fades with the growing distance. I finally reach my door, upon which I realize that there is no longer a convenient mailbox for me to stow my groceries upon. Faced with this dilemma and momentarily stalemate my mind now finds it appropriate to have a spontaneous existential revelation concerning linguistics.

 

Goodbye.

 

See you later.

 

Farewell.

 

Bon Voyage...Good journeys.

 

Godspeed.

 

Be well.

 

Take care.

 

Even, "Long days and pleasant nights to you."

 

Every form of departure involves ending on a positive note. Are we that so insecure on our leavings? No, of course we're not, not anymore. But we were at some point in time. Apparently whenever we broke immediate physical contact with another person we felt urged to inflect them with the wish that we see them again, or at the very least that they survive even outside our sight (thereupon our excuse of wanting tos see them again)--the simple confirmation that they are still there later.

 

Well that may have made a lot more sense and actually meant something back then, but nowadays such archaic phrases hold about as much relevance as three-quarters of the Kosher.

 

In a sense we never outgrow that old infantile principle, do we? Take an object out of a baby's field of vision and, to the baby, that object ceases to exist.

 

But on second thought...imagine what those Old Ones must have felt when someone left them on a negative note. Back in the day when "damn you" actually meant that, and a curse was, well, a curse.

 

I hear the lock click open from the other side of the door next to mine, and it opens. Lionel Blaine pokes out in his forever dorky train tee, keys in hand and wicked smile ever-present on his face.

 

"Hey, where are you going?" he quips. "Leaving so soon?"

 

Reversals like this are his brand of twisted humor. Dead baby jokes I can stand, but truly twisted stuff like this makes me want to stick my head in an industrial paper shredder. Yes, forcing my head with enough pressure to cram it into that thin, narrow opening and continuing to push into the whirring blades themselves.

 

I kick my own door with my left foot, hoping that my dearly beloved and attentive roommate answers to let me inside. However, because after a moment I am still outside my own living room and Blaine is still standing there gawking at me, I decide my roomy henceforth fails at life.

 

“Well anyways, I was just showing up. ‘See you later alligator,’ ” Blaine finally cackles, quoting his favorite line. “After a while crocodile. Don't forget to write.’ ” He locks his door and starts down the hall.

 

See? Even he does it too. Assuming that I'd be back to write. Assuming that he would want to read. Sure, he's quoting a book, but isn't everyone else just quoting...tradition? Nobody means what they say anymore. I'll take my goodbyes goodly when they're said in good faith.

 

I acknowledge his departure in the best way I know how, and the most honest way.

"So long, Blaine. A pox on all your houses."

Author's Note

I usually proofread my works, however as always I'm sure there are typos and syntax errors. I appreciate any and all notices of that, and will work to correct those. If I haven't do know that I did acknowledge your notice and try implementing it, but found that it detracted from the effect I wanted and so omitted it.

Reviews

[Gabriella]

Awesome story, and very cynical. An excellent entry for my contest Cynical Literature. Thanks for submitting it, I'm really glad I had the chance to read it - particularly the bit about [insert deity here].

[Lena M. P.]

Very well written. I thoroughly enjoyed the passage of thoughts as he walks from store to apartment. So much life enveloped in such a short space of time and yet it also allows the audience to share in the storytellers views on life and the world that surrounds us daily.

[Stonewall]

Haha, an interesting thought. I miss Axe deodorant. Nice Work.