What alternative career paths have you considered or are interested in?
You know, as in the little indy bookstores with nooks and crannies where you can sit and enjoy reading, or idly look out the paned windows onto a narrow lane that is a dead end. The scent of books fills the air. There are cats here and there, and they come to you for affection if they desire. There is coffee and tea, which adds a layer of olfactory pleasure on top of the scent of the books. There are desserts. On the other end of the bookstore is a fabric shop, with fabrics ranging in all colors, textures and styles. These too have a pleasant scent, like new clothes on school picture day.
In between the two shops is a neutral zone called “Bookric” – not to be confused with “Rickroll” (and no, I’m never gonna run around and dessert you [gotcha!]) – where one must leave one’s coffee, tea, desserts and rogue cats. Sticky fingers will be assessed. Cat hair shall be lint rolled – again, not to be confused with— ok, ok…
I don’t particularly like to cook, nor like to bake. And to be fair, I don’t have much time to do either one. But when I do undertake the savory or the sweet meal preparation, people tell me they like it. I don’t know if these people are lying to me, but the sheer numbers of seemingly pleased patrons point to the their honesty.
I have two specialties. No, three. Basil pesto on angel hair pasta, starting with freshly picked basil, and continuing on using all fresh ingredients. My second specialty is pasta e fagiole (“pasta fazool” – IYKYK) made from scratch. It takes hours but it’s worth it. It’s an old recipe from a first generation Italian- American.
My third specialty is dark chocolate brownies from the box. Many – if not all – of you might think that that’s not a specialty at all, but I disagree. To obtain the precise interior level of fudgey-ness and crispiness around the edges, without having the middle being underdone, is quite a feet and a feast indeed.
Oh, and please don’t tell me not to lick the batter bowl. I’m going to do it every time.
No? Ok. I remember fossils becoming fossils, the creation of fire, dinosaurs roaming freely, how George Washington’s teeth were made, the beginning of the computer age, landline phones, and yes, sometimes even what happened yesterday.
Thankfully, I went to school and learned these things. Most of them I didn’t live (excepting what happened yesterday). WordPress, you sure know how to make a girl feel young.
“Why do you keep looking at the time?” my colleague asked with squinted, suspicious eyes.
I thought about it for a minute before I answered, knowing how bizarre my answer might seem. I continued typing as I pondered my response. “I’m supposed to meet a guy at the park today,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.
“Oh, really,” she replied, suddenly interested and rolled her chair up to mine. “Do tell.”
“There’s not much to tell. I received a text about ten years ago and it’s stuck with me. The guy thought he was texting someone else. Once he realized I wasn’t the intended recipient, we continued texting with playful banter. It was fun. He was fun, and smart. Also really quick-witted. You know how that hooks me every time. He said we should meet at the park on September 27, 2033. As a joke, of course. But then I started to think about it – and I’ve had ten years to think about it. What if it’s like, some kind of serendipitous experience or cinematic romcom situation?”
She sat there, staring at me blankly. “You’re saying you received a text ten years ago from a guy you don’t know, and you are going to meet him at a park today? Because he said to show up at the park on September 27, 2033? I have questions. What if he’s a stalker? Or a creep? Or 78 years old? Or 17 years old? What if it’s a catfish? And let’s say it’s not: it’s been ten years. Don’t you think he’ll have forgotten your text exchange by now? And since it was said in jest, he’s not going to show up, even if he recalls. Finally, how will you know who this guy is when you see him at the park?”
I shrugged off the first thousand questions. “I won’t,” was my response to the final one.
Her face scrunched. “This is clearly a joke. If you didn’t exchange photos, and haven’t texted since that one mistaken identity thing in 2023, then no, this is not happening. Like, at all.”
I turned back to my screen and continued typing. “I’m going to the park at lunch, sitting on the bench, and I will see if there are any guys loitering around looking at me.”
She ran her hand down her face in a sweeping motion of clearing out the annoyance that was me. I was not dissuaded. “What you are describing is a normal occurrence at the park. Do you know how many random guys loiter around and look at us every day as we walk through?”
I kept typing, keeping my eyes on the screen. ‘Yes, I know, but those are weird guys.”
“What separates this guy from those guys?”
“This guy told me to meet him at the park today.”
She sighed heavily. “I sure hope you have your Suspicious Persons binder up to date before you head out on this bad chick flick adventure of yours, because there are so many ways this can go south. You don’t know who you’re looking for, you don’t know what his intentions are, AND it’s been ten years since this occurred. He may not even show up, and I hope for your sake he doesn’t.”
The sky started taking on a strange darkness as we sat there, our cubicles next to the large window. She kept talking, mostly telling me not to do it, with me mostly thinking about what I could grab for lunch to take to the park. When I defiantly told her I was going, regardless of her lecturing, she waved me off dramatically. “Do what you want, but I’m going to send the police in an hour, and you know I mean it.”
I headed out at around 11:45. I stopped by the sandwich shop at the corner, ordered a croissant – because Paris is always a good idea. I could pretend that this was a Parisian park, and the guy would show up in a raspberry beret, the kind you buy from a secondhand store.
I took off my shoes and walked my way through the soft grass to the bench where I could see everyone in the park. There were kids playing nearby, giggling. There was an older woman sitting on the nearby bench. She smiled and nodded, and I returned her kind acknowledgment. So far, no weird guys had appeared, and no normal guys, either. The sky continued to darken, and I recalled the text exchange from ten years prior. “That’s right, there is a solar eclipse today,” I whispered to myself as a squirrel stared at my croissant, tiny arms pulled up to its chest.
I’d been at the park about fifteen minutes when my phone rang. It was my coworker. “What is happening? Are you insane? Are you safe?” She was bordering on hysteria.
“I’m fine. I’m sitting here talking to a squirrel actually. I’m eating my lunch, and if he doesn’t show up, I’ll just—”
It was at that moment I felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Gotta go,” I said slowly, and ended the call. With a deep breath, I turned slowly toward the direction of the tap. I looked up and I felt a wry smile form. My smile was returned to me tenfold. The sun was blocked out, but not by the eclipse.
