Butters goes out of his way to be considerate sometimes (although he still appears to care more for the Phoenix's delicate sensibilities than mine). Suspiciously so. I think he occasionally reads this blog for tips on how to be a better person. Which is the only reason to read, really – if you don't feel like a better person in comparison to me, you should stay away from... very nearly everything and very definitely everyone.
For example, he warned me that he would bring his family to visit the apartment on the weekend. Now, I was expecting this, but I still choose to feel the warm fuzzies because he understands that my tenuous grip on sanity is directly proportional to the time I spend alone. However, this could also be an attempt to avoid my panicked screams when he politely knocks on my bedroom door to surprise me with their arrival – it would probably be more difficult to explain to his parents at that time that his (totally normal and socially awkward) roommate has a personal bubble of 10 feet and all of Saturday.
The other example involves my fourth Easter miracle: catching a cold after 4 days of relaxation. I am a constant source of amazement and a positive wellspring of mucus. After crawling to work on Monday and discovering that I could have had a five-day weekend (all was not lost; that day, I found an Indian store that sells chickpea flour - and there shall be pakoras and they shall be good), I returned home and tried to convince Butters that gargling warm salt water is a useful method for reducing bacteria and not a transition to pulling underpants over my head, sticking two pencils up my nose, and speaking entirely in wibbles.
He was not convinced. And I am not offended.
This man, early in our orientation period, ate half a lemon before reflecting that perhaps it was not an orange as he had initially thought. To be precise, this reflection came after I smelled lemon zest and asked why he was eating a lemon. In his defense, lemons, limes, and oranges are varying shades of green here, so we have to use other clues to distinguish between them. However, any man who eats half a lemon secure in the knowledge that he'd set out to buy oranges is not a man who can make objective judgements on sanity.
Despite this history, he offered to pick up some oranges to boost my vitamin C intake. I nasally conveyed my thanks and subtle hope that he would just leave me alone instead. He responded by stubbornly repeating his name and ability to distinguish between fruits like a demented preschooler.
But all the laughter ended when he did The Thing. It is the worst Thing. The very worst possible Thing.
“You know the hair lying around?”
For example, he warned me that he would bring his family to visit the apartment on the weekend. Now, I was expecting this, but I still choose to feel the warm fuzzies because he understands that my tenuous grip on sanity is directly proportional to the time I spend alone. However, this could also be an attempt to avoid my panicked screams when he politely knocks on my bedroom door to surprise me with their arrival – it would probably be more difficult to explain to his parents at that time that his (totally normal and socially awkward) roommate has a personal bubble of 10 feet and all of Saturday.
The other example involves my fourth Easter miracle: catching a cold after 4 days of relaxation. I am a constant source of amazement and a positive wellspring of mucus. After crawling to work on Monday and discovering that I could have had a five-day weekend (all was not lost; that day, I found an Indian store that sells chickpea flour - and there shall be pakoras and they shall be good), I returned home and tried to convince Butters that gargling warm salt water is a useful method for reducing bacteria and not a transition to pulling underpants over my head, sticking two pencils up my nose, and speaking entirely in wibbles.
He was not convinced. And I am not offended.
This man, early in our orientation period, ate half a lemon before reflecting that perhaps it was not an orange as he had initially thought. To be precise, this reflection came after I smelled lemon zest and asked why he was eating a lemon. In his defense, lemons, limes, and oranges are varying shades of green here, so we have to use other clues to distinguish between them. However, any man who eats half a lemon secure in the knowledge that he'd set out to buy oranges is not a man who can make objective judgements on sanity.
Despite this history, he offered to pick up some oranges to boost my vitamin C intake. I nasally conveyed my thanks and subtle hope that he would just leave me alone instead. He responded by stubbornly repeating his name and ability to distinguish between fruits like a demented preschooler.
But all the laughter ended when he did The Thing. It is the worst Thing. The very worst possible Thing.
“You know the hair lying around?”
I stared at him icily. Do not finish this sentence.
“Could you... not?"
“Could you... not?"
How dare you, sirrah. “I already comb my hair on the balcony. I am sorry.”
“Step farther away. That's my advice.”
“Like... off the balcony?” Well played, sir.
I shed. Copiously.
This is not a matter of choice – it is a side effect of having hair that falls to mid-thigh and not knowing what to do with it. There are days I dream of cutting it all off.
Like when a lady walking beside me in the market triumphantly lifts handfuls of it to display to her friends on the sidewalk.
Or when our landlord's daughter follows me halfway to our apartment to whisper, “Why are you not bringing biscuits your hair is so fat!”
But I keep it.
And shed. Copiously.
And now - 8.5 months into our sentence - Butters has chosen to bring it up like he didn't notice I was Cousin It when we agreed to this lease on life and a 3-bedroom penthouse suite. This is much worse than when I accuse him of being an uncultured cretin. It is unconscionable.
I immediately swept the floor because I was mortified and we continued with our lives. (When he leaves to pick up his family from the airport, I will make hair angels in his room.)
The next morning, I picked up a new friend on the way to work. He literally hit the ground running – leaping out of the nearby market that I pass every morning, and scuttling as fast as his little legs would allow to keep pace with me. Impressed by this dedication (and the fact that he was older and not trying to flirt with me), I decided to play nice.
“I see you walking every day!”
“Yes.”
“You like sports!”
“...Ye-e-es.” I'm going to hell.
“Are you going to work?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you work?”
“Ye--oover there.”
It was not actually this bad – I was friendly to this man whose job description was 'helper of vendors,' but we just didn't have a whole lot in common, other than that he knew Grandma and Grandpa Oz. There was a brief moment of panic when I thought he was telling me I'd been to his church and that I had met him, but I'm fairly sure he was just inviting me to his church. When that was all worked out, he started talking about his life.
“I am a father of five children.”
“Hmm.”
“Two are twins.”
“Shabadeux!” [Title for father of twins.]
“Yes, life is very hard.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes, there's not enough to pay for school fees and books and everything.”
“Hmm.”
“Very hard.”
“I'm here as a volunteer with the church; I can see that life is hard.”
“...Very hard.”
And then we were interrupted by a not-entirely-sane man who'd once saluted me and then attempted to shake me warmly by the upper arm. [Note: Remember that I don't mention everything that happens to me on this blog simply because I don't have the strength. In addition, I'm more comfortable with people who have an interesting grasp on reality than with those who think they have the right grasp on it.]
“Hey, [Kermit]!”
“Heeyy... you.”
My walking buddy couldn't handle this level of intimacy.
“He knew you!”
“Yes.”
“He said hi!”
“Yes.”
“He knew your name!”
Clearly, he was shocked that other people might approach a foreign stranger apropos of nothing. That they might come up, strike up a conversation, and ask for my name and details. That they might pretend to know me. That they might cultivate familiarity in the hope of resources at best and contacts at worst.
“He is odd!”
Right.
Imagine the whole, entire world out there – full of people who want to give, who want to feel loved, who want to please. Can you see it? Imagine using their strengths – their business skills, their friendliness, their drive for leadership, their ability to support others. Do you see them now? We may not admit to being each other's keepers, but something in us cries out for them. There is endless possibility, if you admit that we have to come together – that each of us is infinitely precious. And no better than anyone else. Can't you see it?
Wait – zoom in. Just a little. That's good. Enough so you can see past the log and past the splinters. Just enough so you can see the whole cross.
“Step farther away. That's my advice.”
“Like... off the balcony?” Well played, sir.
I shed. Copiously.
This is not a matter of choice – it is a side effect of having hair that falls to mid-thigh and not knowing what to do with it. There are days I dream of cutting it all off.
Like when a lady walking beside me in the market triumphantly lifts handfuls of it to display to her friends on the sidewalk.
Or when our landlord's daughter follows me halfway to our apartment to whisper, “Why are you not bringing biscuits your hair is so fat!”
But I keep it.
And shed. Copiously.
And now - 8.5 months into our sentence - Butters has chosen to bring it up like he didn't notice I was Cousin It when we agreed to this lease on life and a 3-bedroom penthouse suite. This is much worse than when I accuse him of being an uncultured cretin. It is unconscionable.
I immediately swept the floor because I was mortified and we continued with our lives. (When he leaves to pick up his family from the airport, I will make hair angels in his room.)
The next morning, I picked up a new friend on the way to work. He literally hit the ground running – leaping out of the nearby market that I pass every morning, and scuttling as fast as his little legs would allow to keep pace with me. Impressed by this dedication (and the fact that he was older and not trying to flirt with me), I decided to play nice.
“I see you walking every day!”
“Yes.”
“You like sports!”
“...Ye-e-es.” I'm going to hell.
“Are you going to work?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you work?”
“Ye--oover there.”
It was not actually this bad – I was friendly to this man whose job description was 'helper of vendors,' but we just didn't have a whole lot in common, other than that he knew Grandma and Grandpa Oz. There was a brief moment of panic when I thought he was telling me I'd been to his church and that I had met him, but I'm fairly sure he was just inviting me to his church. When that was all worked out, he started talking about his life.
“I am a father of five children.”
“Hmm.”
“Two are twins.”
“Shabadeux!” [Title for father of twins.]
“Yes, life is very hard.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes, there's not enough to pay for school fees and books and everything.”
“Hmm.”
“Very hard.”
“I'm here as a volunteer with the church; I can see that life is hard.”
“...Very hard.”
And then we were interrupted by a not-entirely-sane man who'd once saluted me and then attempted to shake me warmly by the upper arm. [Note: Remember that I don't mention everything that happens to me on this blog simply because I don't have the strength. In addition, I'm more comfortable with people who have an interesting grasp on reality than with those who think they have the right grasp on it.]
“Hey, [Kermit]!”
“Heeyy... you.”
My walking buddy couldn't handle this level of intimacy.
“He knew you!”
“Yes.”
“He said hi!”
“Yes.”
“He knew your name!”
Clearly, he was shocked that other people might approach a foreign stranger apropos of nothing. That they might come up, strike up a conversation, and ask for my name and details. That they might pretend to know me. That they might cultivate familiarity in the hope of resources at best and contacts at worst.
“He is odd!”
Right.
Imagine the whole, entire world out there – full of people who want to give, who want to feel loved, who want to please. Can you see it? Imagine using their strengths – their business skills, their friendliness, their drive for leadership, their ability to support others. Do you see them now? We may not admit to being each other's keepers, but something in us cries out for them. There is endless possibility, if you admit that we have to come together – that each of us is infinitely precious. And no better than anyone else. Can't you see it?
Wait – zoom in. Just a little. That's good. Enough so you can see past the log and past the splinters. Just enough so you can see the whole cross.
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