05/13/2002 Entry: "Triskadectaphobia Fodder."

If you were at Mission and 11th Street today at about 9AM, you would have seen a man in black suddenly shriek and flail his arms madly above his head; he would then begin to desperately claw at his back while trying to balance a coffee cup and his shoulder bag. It would have been quite a sight.

If you were to follow him, you'd see him twitching all the way to work, snapping at his suspenders and lifting up his jacket with one hand, or pressing his back against the MUNI train trying to kill whatever had crawled back there.

He would twitch all the way to Pete's coffee, where he'd get condescending looks from dumb girls in tight t-shirts in line. He'd be wondering if they could smell something he couldn't, and visions of bird poop down his shirt would fill his head. Then he'd twitch up to the counter where an indifferent barista would literally sniff and say, "What's this?" about the leftover coffee in his cup. (Yes, Aaron, I still tipped them a dollar, even though the rest of the transaction was basically wordless. Superstition is strong indeed.)

You wouldn't be able to follow him into his office, where he'd finally get a chance to drop his suspenders and lift up his shirt to find the small leaf that fell into the gap between shirt and skin on 11th street. He'd slump back into his chair, victorious.

That's when he'd knock his coffee all over his desk.

Replies: One Comment

ah, honey, that is, without a doubt, a bad morning.

Posted by aaron @ 05/13/2002 01:28 PM PST