Madeline remembered the story of Rula Lenska.

Now there really wasn't much to the story of Rula Lenska at all. Rula Lenska was a moderately famous British actress. She appeared in a hair care commercial as a celebrity testimonial in America.

However, she wasn't known to American audiences for anything. So when she grinned and said, "I'm Rula Lenska," most people just took her as a celebrity for something they weren't interested in or weren't aware of. If you weren't into sports, she must have been some female athlete. If you weren't into music, she must have been a folk singer. 

And this was 1979, before the days of imported DVDs and the Internet. So it wasn't astonishing that a midlevel actress from abroad was unknown, especially that early in her career.

Ultimately, when it became known that she wasn't an "American celebrity," she became famous for pretending to be famous in the States. It was this attitude that always infuriated Madeline.

Madeline imagined the entire world as a gigantic encyclopedia. If you were relevent to anyone, you had a page in this encyclopedia. With your death, your relevancy would take a large spike, no matter how you died. But to remain in the encyclopedia was very difficult as the years passed after your death. Most people's pages would be erased after about 100 years past their death.

But the rules for fame are hardly honorable. While plenty of people could potentially be more suitable to remain in the encyclopedia, it was Rula Lenska who would no doubt stay in the hearts and minds of people forever because of this stupid and uninteresting anecdote.

----

Madeline had recently grown to dislike introductions. She secretly hated engaging in social gatherings for this very reason. It all started well enough, but once the pleasantries were over, the albatross of the situation would reveal its ugly head. Someone would ask, "What do you do?"

Now it is important to note that Madeline didn't hate those doing the asking. Everyone had read the same top ten questions to break the ice, and this was definitely one of them.

"Well, I hope to be a writer," she would stammer after an awkward pause.

As bleak and uncertain as the answer sounded, she felt better still throwing this occupation into her future, at least until she had something published. If she said she was a writer currently, the next question would be about what things she had had published. 

Instead, the next question was some variation of "What do you do in the meantime?" This answer was more certain but proved equal to the previous answer's bleakness.

She would say (and there was never any variation here), "I work at a bookstore. The one on Seventh and Vine."

And then after a pause. "Yes, it is apart of a shopping complex across from it." It being the Wal-Mart. Sometimes she thought the entire town's geography ran on the axis of its proximity to the local Wal-Mart. She could probably say "the one across from the Wal-Mart" and skip a step in her introductions, but that sounded much worse for some reason.

Then, she would be asked if she has written anything yet to which she would always say that she is working on it. But to be honest, she wasn't. Not that she didn't actually want to be a writer. She just had absolutely no ideas, no matter how long she thought about it.

She read books about writing, but all those seemed to do were identify the components of a story. In her mind, to tell her she needed characters, setting, and a plot was akin to telling her she needed a beginning, middle, and an end.

Her biggest resistance against this was to just sit down and write, but this method also proved ineffective. Most of the time, she would simply write a cliched sentence or paragraph and then give up. On a rare occasion, she would run with a fuzzy idea of a story for a couple of pages, leave it, only to return the next day with nothing new to bring to the table and the story at a standstill.

So she had written nothing long enough or coherent enough to even be considered a short story in her life, and her chosen vocation was being a writer. The irony was not lost here.

Another awkward pause would follow this stumbling attempt at a conversation. Then, the asker would excuse himself to get some punch or go to the bathroom or get on a nearby bus. In the case of groups, the asker would simply turn to someone more interesting.

Oddly, in the worst case scenario, the asker would decide that she was worth a moment's time. He would then ask her what her favorite Jane Austen novel was or whether J.D. Salinger truly was overrated or not. And with this, a label had been slapped on her quicker and with more ease than even the aging Wal-Mart greeters could apply with their nametags.

But Madeline wasn't one for putting up a fight with such labels so in this case she would smile benignly and say, "Emma." 

Or, "Catcher is, but I like Nine Stories."

It usually wouldn't go much further than this, though some would push further under misinformation that she had a Ph.D in English and had read every book in the Library of Congress. 

And that is basically a rough outline for the pilot episode of Madeline's life. The pilot episode that is on constant rerun over and over again with no new characterization, no new developments, and most of the details left unchanged.

There were a number of these occurances for two reasons. One because it was inevitable, just as the questions were. The other was that she secretly also wanted to break out of her endless cycle. Perhaps one day an ephiphany moment would come and everything would be clear about the fulfillment of the rest of her life.

It wouldn't be overly dramatic to say that Madeline didn't think highly of herself. She wasn't suicidal or anything; in fact, she cherished life. She always saw herself horrificly dying young via disease or car crash or some other freak occurance, causing the occasional fitful sleep.

But her life was mundane and mostly ruled by suffocating routine. Maybe this was why she loved escapist fiction so much. And why she liked to write. This was not a grand or new discovery. Maybe this was why she was most looking forward to finishing an idea on her walk home in the briskly cold autumn of New Castle, Indiana.

As it turns out, this was a pretty good day so far.

Hours before, Madeline had been stationed at her usual post behind the counter of the book store where she was employed. As usual, it was a sleepy morning that consisted mostly of Madeline either nodding off or reading from a book she brought with her. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the residents of New Castle weren't the most bookish. They weren't the most imaginative either as the book store went by the clever and irreverent store name, "The Book Store."

When she read the name of the store (which was almost every day when she entered), she read it literally with the emphasis on "store" rather than "book." Like instead of being a shopping place for people to buy books, it was a cellar that stored up books and rationed them like World War II foodstuffs.

It was a bit too much like a night watchmen's job for Madeline's taste. At first, she would break the monotony from time to time by checking on everything to make sure it was looking nice and orderly. After a couple of months, she came up with an Oprah-esque "book of the month" spotlight. She chose a book and even wrote up a short page of her feelings about it.

After two months, the book of the month spotlight became a book of the week spotlight. She even considered a transition to book of the day, but she thought the special designation would wear itself thin as a daily. 

Her method was simple: she alternated from week to week between a classic and a more modern, offbeat novel. And in the meantime, she'd usually read at least one new book that she considered worthy of the designation to add to the queue of others she hadn't gotten to include yet.

The entire idea gave her a small satisfaction, like she now was taking on a seperate job as a literary critic at the book store. Even though, the job was self-imposed and mostly unnoticed. 

The spotlight was mostly unnoticed, but not completely unnoticed. There was one young man who was absolutely fanatical about the idea. Perchance, he came into the bookstore the day she introduced the spotlight.

He had the type of lost, adventurous look one has when exploring. He was tall and sported tame brown hair, a striped polo shirt, and khakis. All in all, Madeline guessed he had just discovered the place was here.

It was about ten in the morning, and predictably, he was the first customer of the day. Madeline pretended as if it was not an event for a customer to come in. She struggled to maintain this composure daily.

As Madeline lied to herself, she noticed his eyes wander almost immediately to the book spotlight display that she had placed at a prominent position near the entrance. Her face automatically contorted into a smile as her mind squealed in delight. This was a strange moment of triumph that even she couldn't completely explain.

The man read the sign, apparently thoroughly as his eyes lingered on it. He then slowly pawed the book, gazing at its cover and turning it over violently to read the back. The entire sequence was so hopelessly dramatic that it was perfect in Madeline's mind.

"Is this a book club?" He said, studying the back cover. He paused and looked toward her.

She smiled timidly as if caught lying, "Sort of. Well, not really. It's just a sort of 'book of the month' type thing. We just started it today."

"Today, huh?"

"Yeah."

He studied her blankly for a second and then looked back on the book, still deliberating.

"It sounds interesting," he muttered.

A pause.

"Certainly creative," he added. "The circus." He smiled at the idea, as if fondly remembering a time at the circus in his childhood, all while still studying the book.

Another pause passed.

"Did you like it?" He asked.

Madeline indulged herself in a little gushing, "I loved it. It's one of my favorite books, and I only read it recently."

He smiled, "I'll give it a go then. I was looking for a new book to try."

Madeline nodded serenely and smiled, watching him enter into one of the aisles of the bookstore. Before he even left, she was hoping he would return and discuss it one day. She didn't know anyone else who had taken her up on reading it.

When he was finished perusing the store's selection, he approached the counter meekly, cutting to the top of an invisible line. He had purchased The Circus in Winter as well as On the Road by Jack Keruoac. She had not read the latter, but she knew its reputation as the cornerstone of the Beat Generation. She had been vaguely interested in reading it only days before.

She must have been staring longer than she thought at On the Road because he felt the need to explain his interest.

"My brother swore by it. He kept pestering me about reading it some day," he said.

She snapped out of it and smiled, "Yeah, I was interested in this. I just didn't know if it was my kind of thing."

"Me neither. I don't really like super descriptive books. I get lost in them."

"Looks good, though."

"Yeah, it does."

He reached for his wallet suddenly, as if he just realized this transaction involved payment. Then, he paid and left with white bag in hand.

"Who was that?"

A spooked Madeline jumped. Louise had that effect on people. Madeline didn't particularly enjoy it. Her co-worker had been stacking shelves with books near the back of the store with a big, rolling step ladder. Madeline found it odd that she didn't hear the familiar soft squeak of the ladder's wheels.

"Nobody, it was just a customer," Madeline stated, regaining her composure and checking the cash register.

"Woah," Louise let go of the ladder and put her hands to her heart. "A cust-"

Madeline sighed, letting the ghost of a smile come across her face, "A customer, yes."

Louise stepped closer, "A customer came in here in the mid-morning and actually left with books?"

"Yes."

"Wow. And they say people don't read anymore," Louise said, gripping the ladder once again and moving it towards the back.

Madeline smiled to herself about how much of an old, crabby grandmother Louise sounded. She thought about how quickly they had transitioned into the next generation. Many people associate unique groups of people with generations like the Baby Boomers or Generation X, but she didn't see it like that. It always felt to her like she was just asked to assimiliate from one age group to the next as quickly as possible. Like time was slipping through her fingers.

----

Louise was an interesting co-worker. The tall, matter-of-fact brunette had grown up in a perfect nuclear family. Her father was a Vietnam War veteran and construction worker. Her mother was the last living traditional homemaker and proud of it.

So, she did the only thing she could do as a kid with that background. She went to college and majored in English with no real intention of doing anything with it. She simply liked English and liked reading books.

"Whenever you hear about college, you always hear about those cool looking classes that everybody wants to take," she had said once to Madeline. "I want to be the one taking those classes, experiencing new things, looking into what I'm interested in."

Louise tried her fair share of offbeat classes. Under her ledger of miscellaneous courses were History of 80's Electronica, Comic Book Science, Philosophical Math I and II, and North Dakotan Cinema.

"The reason why the majority of college is so boring is because its so general," she added. "It is in everyone's best interest to keep as many options open as they can. So everyone tries to get the broadest education possible. No one wants to do anything interesting anymore."

But what was interesting back in her college days was her one-woman show of Annie Hall. If one wasn't paying too close attention, it looked a bit like a game of hopscotch, as she made up for the differing heights of Woody Allen and Diane Keaton. All the inebriated regulars at the college bar absolutely loved it, though. One man even offered money for some sort of an encore, but when he explained what it was, she punched him.

On the whole, Louise was disappointed with the college experience. In her mind, college was a place where everyone's lives transformed. College was the beginning of the next phase of your life, whatever that meant. She wasn't even sure what she was expecting, but she expected a clear difference.

Instead, it was more or less the same old, same old. While there were differences, the differences were mostly depressing or unpleasant. Like the dormitory. Or the cafeterias. Or Anthropology.

While she previously regarded all nighters like she regarded sweet potatoes or Everybody Loves Raymond (not for her), it actually became necessary to do them. Her mind was a wreck. She was forgetting the point behind what she was trying to do. On paper, some of these classes seem interesting, but then in the midst of all the workload, everything just fades away.

She began to notice that she read stacks of books during the summer but never read anything during the school year. And the books she read during the school year -- she hated. Everything about the school system attempted to throw them into a blender and discover the equation to its meaning. Class became so functionary that she absolutely despised every second.

She especially loathed Shelly Patterson, who sat in the front row of her Advanced English 352 class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She was the type that would buddy up with the professor pretty quickly, feeling the need to proclaim at some point or another that the book they were reading was her new favorite. Ms. Patterson felt it necessary to put on the most smug face in the world as she answered question after question about the subtext of Madame Bovary or the themes of This Side of Paradise.

Shelly's face wasn't visible, but Louise was absolutely certain it was the definitive picture of smugness. Just by the inflection of her voice, she knew. At times, Louise would catch herself scribbling a thousand "SHUT UP"s in the margins of her notes. Once she drew a very elaborate picture of Shelly getting arrested for cocaine possession right in the middle of class.

On one night, the stars chose to align. Diligently working away on her list for the upcoming class project, Professor Adams paired Shelly and Louise. Although she wouldn't admit it if asked, the pairing here wasn't completely random for the professor. She took liberty to pair contrasting personalities in the sort of mad professor social experiments that were bound to happen. They were both good students, but Shelly was overly vocal, and Louise was almost silent.

The result was almost comical. On the day of presentations, Shelly had the aura of a Presidential candidate on the eve of primaries. She beamed under the temporary spotlight. Louise also was under a spotlight, but it felt more like the unrelenting beam of an interrogation room.

It was near the end of the semester, and the class was recapping all the different periods of European literature. They had the Victorian age. They broke the period into two halves with Shelly taking the first and Louise taking the second. Each would read a speech and run through a Powerpoint presentation.

At the beginning of class, Professor Adams asked for volunteers. Shelly shot her arm skyward, as if flagging down a taxicab driving 60 MPH. Louise groaned, staggering to the front of the room with her note cards and floppy disk. 

As Louise dramatically opened the Victorian Age as "the time literature began to breathe with new intensity," Louise started to drift away. She stared blankly at a chalkboard near the back of the room, no longer in use. It looked aged with the cracked chalk marks of years and years of classes. She wondered how long it had been there, and how many people had been in this room before her. She wondered if their lives changed.

Suddenly, the class was very silent, and all at once, she realized everyone was staring at her. Those paying attention would have noted the very clear and obvious segway Shelly gave, transitioning into her part of the presentation. "And now its time for Louise's part," doesn't require a lot of thought, but it is pretty straight forward. Even though she palmed the note cards that gave very obvious notes as to what to say, the words started to blur as she gazed at them. Her brow started to furrow and moisten.

Professor Adams had been taking sporadic notes as Shelly gave her presentation, but now she nervously shifted in her chair. Her pencil rested, tucked behind her ear.

"Louise?" Professor Adams said, expectantly through her oval-shaped glasses.

"Yes?" she reacted automatically.

"Your part of the presentation?"

Louise swayed a bit side to side and looked down at her note cards once again, searching for an answer that wasn't there. She looked up again.

"May I be excused?" she asked. Remembering this wasn't a dinner party, she clarified, "I mean, could I do this some other time? I don't really feel up to this today."

Professor Adams put her hand to her chin, "Are you ill?"

Even though this was a question up for debate, depending on your definition of ill, Louise merely resigned and nodded meekly.

"In that case, I'm sure we can pause the Victorian Age until next class."

Then, Shelly decided to ask if these events would mean points off from her grade. Before her professor could reply reassuringly, a single sentence erupted from Louise's mouth of its own volition. It was clearly directed towards Shelly (she was mentioned by name), and it included an expletive. 

There are those moments when time just seems to stop, and this was definitely one of them. The class wouldn't have been more shocked if she had grabbed Shelly in a headlock and banged her head against a wall. There was an awkward moment of complete silence as Louise struggled with any possible way to explain herself.

"Louise!" began the scolding tone of the professor. By this time, Louise felt her face turn beet red and the sting of tears so she mentally bailed from the situation. Rushing back to her desk, she grabbed her backpack and left in the interest of outrunning her embarrassment.

Leaving the building and walking in the commons area, her nose sniffed fiercely to stifle herself. She hated Louise. She hated presentations. She hated Professor Adams for pairing her with Louise in the first place, probably as some stupid "I wonder what will happen here" game that professors ALWAYS pull at some point during the year. But most of all, she hated herself for doing that. That one moment of anger had guaranteed that she could never step into that class again, she thought.

Of course, she did step into the class again. On the last day before exams, she wearily presented her half of their project as Professor Adams icily stared her down. The professor's look of disgust throughout worried Louise about her potential grade, but at this point it didn't matter. 

Shelly wouldn't even stand by her for the occasion. She openly refused when asked by the professor and made a big show of being supposedly heartbroken over the remark. For a second, Louise even felt sorry for Shelly. For all she knew, Shelly wasn't that bad of a person after all. Mostly, Louise just hated herself for being so stupid.

Two weeks later, Louise sat down and aced the final easily. She particularly had no problem with the essay question, which, in a stroke of luck, was about the Victorian age. It was possible that Professor Adams just felt sorry for Shelly, and this stroke of luck was inadvertently beneficial to Louise as well.

Strangely enough, Shelly was a motivating factor as Louise sat down to write rhetorical essays and literary responses throughout that semester. She was a small reason why Louise pulled out with an A in that class so easily. But the whole time was joyless for Louise. On seeing her final grade, she felt a brief sense of relief and then nothing.

----

I'd assume this happens to everyone but just in case it doesn't, I've discovered there's a small second of time when at first you discover something bad is going to happen. Your stomach feels empty and you start to blindly dread an unknown vague idea of wrong coming to your world, shaking everything up like a violent earthquake. In these moments, you are willing to do anything and everything to avoid the oncoming mayhem. And this isn't reserved from one time occurances that you've never encountered before. Oh no, this is for even the daily aspects of life. For example, when a kid wakes up on the first day of school. For the first couple of seconds, he doesn't even know where he is at. Then he realizes he is at his house, its morning, and he just woke up. But then (and this is the key), he realizes that it is the first day of school. That is the feeling I am talking about. That is the feeling that I just experienced. Its even harder when you are an adult and on your own because you don't have that strong moral factor in your life to tell you that you have to go through with the process and take it. Allowed with a wider choice range, many tend to opt for cowardly escaping.

I was always fairly responsible so I'm actually not doing that today. Today is my first day at a new job, my first real job ever. Well, if you don't count me running a paper route during summers, this is my first job ever.

I've been staring at this cut on my index finger for the longest time. I had gotten it yesterday. See, being the neat freak that I am, I was cleaning out my closet for the first time since I'd moved into my apartment. I moved into my apartment five years ago. So I'm there unloading boxes and I find this box that I got from my mom on my last birthday. It was a portable television for when I would be traveling on business. Of course, a month afterward I lost that job because I was late..again. So the portable television finds itself in the very back of my closet unopened. For some reason that couldn't be farther beyond my comprehension in hindsight, I took out a boxcutter and motioned to cut open the box. Only when I flicked open the boxcutter, the blade got my index finger and yeah, cut my skin to shreds.

At least it felt that way. It technically still feels that way to a lesser degree. It hasn't stopped bleeding. This is amazing. It isn't that I'm afraid of my blood. That couldn't be farther from the truth. I've never found myself to be someone that wants to pass out as soon as they see their blood. I just am annoyed that I have to take time out and go to the bathroom to wash out the cut and hope it stops bleeding so I don't waste any more of my time. Thusly, this is the biggest annoyance of yesterday. Actually, in retrospect, yesterday was a good day. Yesterday was a great day. Yesterday I didn't go to work. I just sat around eating potato chips and watching the Royals game.

So this is a little tradition that I have. I woke up an hour early for work for a reason. I always, always get breakfast at a local dinery. At home, it was Cup O' Joe's. A construction worker that my father knew in high school owned the joint and he would usually offer us a cup of coffee on the house. Of course, I would end up being the putz holding the chocolate milk carton because I couldn't stand coffee. I can't stand coffee. It tastes like chalk. Plus, its bad for you. Its like cigarettes. Its a no-win situation. In college, it was the dorm kitchen. Not because the food was that good but because everyone ate there and I usually liked to stay close to the campus so I could cram for tests later in the morning.

Thusly the tradition continues. Only one problem, I had no local destination in Seattle. There were no local diners. There was no dorm kitchen to depend on. This was big city mornings. Everyone is out for themselves. I was in a sort of dilemma and mentally kicked myself for not thinking of this sooner. This wasn't just any bite to eat. This was important. I had been eating at six o'clock in the morning nearly every day of my life. I couldn't just stop, and I couldn't throw that away. Plus, I detest fast food. You might call me a Northern guy with a Southern appetite, considering that I've always been one for homecooking. In fact, I used to always gravitate to those old cheesy Southern style restaurants just because of how quaint and homey it felt. It gives a false sense of security, but at least it feels right. 

This all feels wrong. I kept thinking that as I pulled into the first McDonald's I saw. I honestly don't know why I pulled into the McDonald's. Like I said, I can't stand fast food. The only time I ever ate here was because I had a coupon for a free Big Mac and being eccentric, I didn't want to waste it. It gave me an upset stomach and the secret sauce watered down the hastily cooked thin piece of meat. I've had my share of steaks. I love steak. A good T-bone would dwarf what is supposedly McDonald's top burger. That was enough to turn me off the whole organization.

Then again, it was also morning and my stomach wasn't rejecting food but quite inviting the notion of it. So I walked into the freshly mopped halls of McDonald's, the top fast food chain in America and became one of the billions sucked in. I walked up to the sparkling white counter and smiled at the energetic young teen taking my order.

"Hello sir, welcome to McDonald's of Grammar County, home of the Gremlins burger." She said as if reading an invisible piece of paper, "Would you like to try a Gremlins burger?"

This was Grammar County in Seattle and everyone talked about the hometown Grammar Gremlins. You would think that they won State or something to deserve all this talk. Except they didn't. In fact, they aren't any good at all, they won a total of two games this year in a twelve game schedule. Except the quarterback of the team is Scott Sterling, an All-American and everyone keeps talking about him going to a top college and later on to the NFL. Most of the people there aren't watching the game but Scott. Its like an early training camp with all the scouts out there. So with the popularity for all that success came a new field, a burger, and a collector's cup set. For an extra thirty cents, of course.

I picked all this up from reading the Grammar County Times which might be the most centered newspaper of all-time with almost no news coming from parts outside the small town. Okay, so not all of Seattle is big city mornings, but it is one of the only things I can hold onto after a morning like this. What I'm doing might be important so people should respect me for it.

"Well then, would you like to try our new chocolate mcmocca latte mix for only $3.95?" She added, still processing my unprecedented turn down of the mighty Gremlins burger. 

"Wait, wait a second. Its six in the morning. Why are you offering me a burger?"

"I said a mocca latte."

"No, no, before, you said something about a Gremlins burger or something. Its six o'clock."

"Oh I forgot, that's the afternoon greeting! I'm so sorry! You were the first customer that I had today after I had a late shift yesterday, and I forgot to 'shift' gears. Hehehehe. Um, would you like me to tell you what the breakfast special is?"

"No--"

"Because its the mocca latte.."

"Yeah, I'll just have the sausage biscuit meal," I said, quickly scanning the menu and grimacing at some of the pictures.

"Orange juice?"

"..Huh?"

"To go with the meal."

"Oh yeah, orange juice will be fine. Yes, thank you."

"Okay, and this meal also comes with a small bag of hash browns. That'll be $3.20."

She smiled widely as I dug into my pockets to get the money. I had a five dollar bill that was easily visible, but I searched for the exact change among dimes and nickels. She squirmed as I stalled and finally came up with $3.20.

"It'll be just a moment."

I nodded. I don't like talking to people. I'm not really what you would call a people person. Its funny that I wake up at a time I don't have to and cavalierly throw myself into these situations where I have to deal with people. I'm a glutton for punishment.

I walked around in place, yet another tell that a person is nervous. I don't even know why I'm nervous half the time. I just can never stand in the same place. This place is okay. At least in the morning, its pretty clean. I looked out the window into the crisp, windy day. Outside, you could perfectly see the famous golden arc standing, a little rustic. The sign proudly proclaiming the billions and billions served probably hadn't been changed in years. Behind the counter, a couple of people were taking out trays full of sausages and putting in trays of eggs. In the very back, a woman opened a freezer and pulled out a huge bag full of frozen over biscuits. While Cup O' Joe's painstakingly brushed the biscuits with the right amount of buttermilk, McDonald's bought frozen ones at a cheap bulk price.

There was a television by the window that showed the outside screen of what I assumed was the line for drive-thru. There was a fresh oil stain on the pavement of the parking lot near there and someone had graffitied "GREMLINS SUCK" on the sidewalk. I wondered why customers that ate in got a clean environment while the drive-thru customers were completely forgotten. During this perplexing mind jogger, she came back near the counter and put the contents of my meal within a bag. She then took the smallest orange juice cup ever and stood three seconds by the machine to fill it up. Someone call Guinness.

"Here you go, sir. Thank you and have a great day," She said it as if the first customer was such an arduous task.

As I took the bag, I realized that she never asked me if I was eating in or not, which I was. I checked out the seating arrangements of this place and found that I wasn't alone. A dark-haired girl with glasses was stooped over book as she munched on a biscuit herself. I stood there for a moment. Something about the way she looked was absolutely mesmerizing.

I didn't particularly want to be bothered, and I'm sure she didn't either so I sat down my bag two tables from her and quietly opened the contents, not looking up. So obviously when she addressed me so suddenly, I was surprised.

"Hi."

She said it so casually that I was taken aback. I don't mean to sound so heart-stricken about the whole situation because I didn't even know this woman. Plus, I didn't want to be disturbed! I saw that she wanted to read a book, and I didn't bother her. She was the one who addressed me. What was I supposed to say? I sat down so far away that she can't infer that I want some sort of conversation. Maybe she's trying to dig one up? She's probably just being polite. I'm making way too much of this whole situation. I am so desperate. Well, say something.

"Um, hello."

She put down her book and stared at her food for a moment while she took slight glances in my direction from her rose-tinted glasses, studying me. I just pretended like I was going about my usual business and became to experiment with the food. The food wasn't so bad. I was actually surprised. I mean it wasn't the same as the delicious homecooking that I become so accustomed to, but it was better than I figured it would be. This isn't so bad. I took another bite of my biscuit.

"What do you do?" She said, finally committing to a question.

I swallowed and shoved a napkin to my mouth, "Excuse me?"

"What do you do? I mean, like, what's your job? You look like you are important enough."

I became self-conscious of what I was wearing, which was a striped polo shirt and this awful yellow tie that I only wore because I promised someone that I would.

"I'm, I'm actually an English teacher," I nodded as if pushing myself forward, "I teach at the high school over on 42nd Street."

Her face lit up as if I had just discovered the cure for cancer, "I went there. It was awful! Is Mr. Potalini still the principal?"

"Yeah, yeah, he is. He's a nice guy. I just met him the other day. This is actually my first day."

"Well, hey, good luck. I can't say I liked that high school much, but I'd be interested in hearing from the other perspective."

"Well, like I said, this is my first day. Not much to tell." I added, effectively slamming shut this conversation.

I went back to my not-so-bad food and sipped the orange juice. I really wish I had something to read. At least she could feign interest in the book she was reading while I casually took an interest in the complexities of the playplace. McDonald's had this big extension to the building that had more tables and a small little playground that kids would play at. Of course, noone was there now. I studied the inner workings of the big slide and wondered who came up with these absurd designs. What job description has under it 'design overcomplicated playground to give adults ten minutes of peace and--'?

"Could I ask you a question?" The increasingly inquisitive woman said, laying down her book. She dog-eared the page she was reading and shut it slowly as if absent-mindedly.

"You already asked me a question." I responded, only to realize seconds later how terrible it sounded. She smiled.

"Could I ask you ANOTHER question?"

"Uh, sure."

She attempted to muffle a laugh, "Why do you have on a yellow tie?"

I grinned, "I was put up to it."

"I'll bet."

And then she simply got up, pushed her seat in deliberately, and moved her tray to my table. She leaned in and extended a hand. "Louise."

"Patrick."

We shook and she sat down.

"well, Patrick, today I am on a sort of mission." She said this as if we'd known each other for years.

"What sort of mission?"

"WELL, I didn't get much sleep last night because I am inherently irresponsible. Always will be. So the first part of my mission today is to avoid sleep during work." She stopped and lifted her cup of coffee. I nodded. She continued, "The second phase of my mission is to avoid boredom." She paused and raised the book for emphasis. I nodded again. She pushed on with a sour expression, "The only thing is, this book is not working at all. This is just really, really boring." She laughed, exasperated.

There was a silence. I realized I was supposed to fill it. "Where do you work?"

"The bookstore across from the Wal-Mart." She pointed vaguely to the right as if it was right around the corner. It wasn't. She paused, almost with an accusatory look, "Have you been there?"

"I can't say that I have," I said, frowning apologetically.

"Not many people have. It's sort of struggling at the moment," she whispered, secretly.

"Well, I'm new into town so that's probably more of the reason."

She brightened, "Oh really, where are you from?"

"Missouri."

"I'm not even sure where that is, to be honest with you. I mean, I kind of know. I've seen a map. But, right now anyways, it might as well be another world. You're really from way out there?"

"Yeah."

"And you came to be a high school English teacher?"

"Yeah."

She paused and then slowly said, "Is there a more specific reason? You could have taught anywhere."

"I just wanted to get away," I said, looking over her shoulder. "Mostly, it was just arbitrary. Just the first place that looked appealing enough. You'll think it's strange, but I always kind of romanticized this city."

I was afraid she might push further but she just said, "Like Sleepless in Seattle, Meg Ryan stuff?"

I looked toward her and smiled sarcastically, "Yeah, Sleepless in Seattle is my inspiration."

"Do you like Fraiser and grunge and lots of rain?"

"More or less."

"Welcome to Seattle," she said, unethusiastically.

----

Madeline's life ran on simple pleasures, and this was all reinforced with repetition. After work, she preferred to walk home. This would always take roughly the same amount of time (approximately 16 minutes), barring severe weather conditions. When she got home, she was usually, if not always, exhausted and famished. So she would cook something.

What to cook was one of the few decisions chosen spontaneously with a rare devil-may-care attitude from Madeline, but one could argue that even this was prone to predictability. For example, on Mondays, she almost always ate spaghetti, lasagna, or some other miscellaneous pasta. On Thursdays, for some reason, she geared more towards canned meats, accompanied with vegetables (usually corn and green beans.) Saturday was a more adventurous night where she would go to the trouble of baking chicken or making a meat loaf. On these nights, Louise would be invited to aid in the eating. Madeline usually didn't have to twist her arm in doing so.

When eating large meals like the previous examples, she would watch a movie. The meal obviously wouldn't last the duration, so the movie was paused at the thirty (or so) minute mark usually to discard the dishes. If it was a particularly boring film, Madeline would then fall asleep at the hour mark. 

On one occasion, she rented The Best of Jimmy Fallon because there was nothing else. Remarkably, the film was over before she had scarcely touched her plate. She wondered if all his "best and most hilarious moments" really were included. After eating, she decided to play solitaire.

When eating small meals (soup, chili, salad, even chips), she preferred to read a book instead. Though, she disliked this because she rarely got very far in the book during this time, perhaps a few pages in between glances. Plus, every once in a while, the book would gain unnecessary contact with the food.

It was Saturday, so Louise was coming over. Louise had begun to mention it throughout the week, dropping her suggestion for the movie. Quickly, Louise had begun to feel uncomfortable, only coming over once the food was done, so she began to come over for the preparation as well. It quickly became a weekly tradition that they both looked forward to.

"Where do you get this stuff?" Louise said as she pondered the mysterious content of the pot she was stirring.

"What?" Madeline asked.

"These recipes, I've never heard of half the stuff you make."

"My mom used to make this," Madeline responded, studying the instructions.

Madeline's mother was the type that was very social within the neighborhood. No one really remembers when she formed the friendships of all the neighbors; it just sort of happened. Madeline's mother was the one link between her family and the rest of the neighborhood.

There was many an occasion during small talk when a neighbor would reveal in hushed tones, "a secret family recipe." When given this information, her mother was immediately struck with the conviction to make the dish. Or at least attempt to make the dish.

In a way, the family's mood (including her mother's) depended on the quality of the meal presented. When her mother took chances in the kitchen after work, this would put everything in danger. If something went awry, even disasterous, her father would always work up the courage to complement her mother's cooking. After all, it was the effort that counted. But there was always an uneasy silence around the dinner, and the family seemed to share an unspoken bond on the matter.

That didn't matter though; this was a meal that had passed the trial by fire.

Louise stared at the baby blue wallpaper, "I'm thinking about going back to school for my masters."

Madeline looked up and smiled in her direction, "That's great!"

Louise turned, ladle still stirring, "Let me rephrase: I wish I had my masters. I probably should have gotten it."

Madeline rotated her hands in circles, "So ... you are going back to get it?"

Louise raised her free index finger, "In a perfect world, yes. In the real world, it would suck to take night classes. And it would REALLY suck to get the extra job needed to pay for night classes."

Madeline frowned, "How expensive are night classes?"

"Too expensive," Louise said with a sigh. She returned to the pot.

Madeline sorted through the mail that Louise had retrieved when she entered the house roughly an hour earlier. Madeline usually didn't bother to check the mail box on Saturdays. With the advent of e-mail, instant messaging, even online postcards, there was really nothing benevolent that could come via mail route. And bills can wait.

As she shifted through the mail (which indeed were mostly bills, they all seem to come in disappointing clusters), one particular letter caught her eye. She passed it up in the pile the first time, betwixt her bank statement and the cable bill, but she shuffled it quickly back to the forefront. 

A letter from Merchant Publishing shone with the white glint of freshly unopened and very important looking mail. All the other pieces of mail fell thoughtlessly out of her hands and onto the table as she hastily ripped through its pristine envelope. 

"I really want to see this movie. I really like Christian Bale," Louise commented, still stirring and also sort of swaying from side to side now with the motion.

Madeline read the letter. Well, sort of. She really just zoned in on a couple of key words like "recieved," "manuscript," "sorry," and "regret." She backpedaled and allowed herself to read the letter uninterrupted, confirming her fears. Her heart fell.

"This IS the magician movie, isn't it?" Louise asked. After a pause, she turned toward Madeline, "Madeline?"

Madeline bit her lip. "Just a rejection letter," she said flatly. She held it in her hand for a disproportionate length of time, squinting at it. Perhaps if she stared long enough, the words on the page would change. 

"Sorry," Louise said after a pause.

Madeline broke her stare, "It's okay. I wasn't really expecting anything anyways." She crumpled the paper into a ball, and shot it toward the wastepaper basket. She missed.

"Was that the same one that I read before?" she asked, slowly rotating the ladle.

"It's the only one," Madeline said with a sigh as she retrieved the wad of paper and threw it in the garbage can.

"The one" that they were referring to was a fantasy story about a young, imaginative girl named Susan, who lived a normal life. Then, suddenly, she realized a portal into another world, in which children were viewed with more thought and importance. A battle ensued between two enemy factions in the wonderland, in which Susan played a key role. Though she was presented with the opportunity to return at the end, she elected to stay and became Queen of her fantasy realm.

She tried not to say to anyone that she was writing something because for one, it sounded awfully self-indulgent to her. Moreover, Madeline depressed herself constantly when she tried to answer the question "What's it about?" The brief synopsis she provided, usually very similar to the one given, could have easily been a million different fantasy novels.

"I think it's done."

Madeline looked toward the loud, bubbling noise eminating from the pot, "Yeah, it's done."

Louise eyed the pot with suspicion, "Are you sure we cooked it right?"

Madeline stepped in front of her and turned off the stove, "It's good. You'll see."

----

Going to the school was an absolute revelation. Suddenly, I was a teenager again. It was the first day of school, and I was dreading it like everyone else. It was like one of those flashbacks you see in TV shows where the screen gets all black and white with small indiscriminate lines peeking out. Except this was real. The halls vibrated with the sound of an hour before school starts. The walls shimmered with bright, intense color.

Even though I had never been in this school before in my life, everything seemed instantly familiar. From the commons area cafeteria to the placement of the food machines. Every school absolutely must be shaped like a prison. I guessed there was a rickety old gym somewhere in the back where basketball games were held. Later, I found out I was right.

It was six o'clock in the morning, and school would begin in roughly one hour. The first day of school. Perhaps, yesterday, if someone told me I was beginning as a teacher tomorrow, I would have agreed. At the moment, it would take some convincing.

I just stood there looking from direction to direction, mouth wide open like an idiot, for awhile before someone finally noticed me. He was a man of slim build, sporting a boyish, smiling face with brown, trim hair. He wore a full suit with a red-and-white polka dot bow tie.

"Hi there," he said, prefunctionary, like we were neighbors. He waved when he said it, all in one smooth, calculated motion with the fingers knotted together. Like how a robot or the Queen of England would wave.

He was just coming out of his classroom on the second floor. He looked to be headed down to chat me up, but then he stopped abruptly. "Why don't you come on up?"

I paused and then nodded slightly. This was enough for him as he just re-entered his classroom, apparently busy with, with things teachers do on the first day of school before class. On my patient walk up the stairs to his classroom, I thought about how his announcer's voice already slightly grated on my nerves. It was very fake, like the kind that people employ when they are just meeting you. Or the kind that entire cast of Real World uses on the first couple of episodes, I guess.

I entered his classroom and found all sorts of dorky posters that are a prerequisite to all classroom walls. One poster had a boy frowning (and slightly crying) saying, "If you don't learn your HISTORY, you are doomed to REPEAT it." Another had Garfield dressed up as Napoleon Bonaparte.

"I got that at a gift shop. It's a riot, isn't it?" He was referring to Napoleon Garfield.

I smiled, "Yeah."

He grabbed a paper off his desk and walked over to me. He showed the front page to me, apparently expecting me to recoil as soon as I saw its contents.

"Do you see this? Bush is trying to pass his own agenda off again."

I nodded. He continued, looking down at the paper, "I mean I don't think we've ever had a President who has been so full of himself, just pushing his own views on everyone else. What do you think of all this?"

This was the first day of school, and me pretending that I cared about this was definitely getting off on the wrong foot. I had to confess, "Actually, I'm not really all that political."

He looked up, studying me, "Well, who did you vote for last election?"

I bit my lip, "Actually, I didn't."

He looked heart-stricken, "Well, just because you dislike the current administration, don't let that dissway you from voting. It's our duty as American citizens. Apathy isn't it. John Lennon said that. You do know who John Lennon is, right?"

"Yes, and it's really not that. Not that all," I defended. "I'm just not very politically inclined. I would probably feel worse if I voted without really knowing anything. Or voted without really feeling strongly about either one."

"Well, that's just a part of it. Have to read the news, study up a bit, make an educated decision. You know back in the day they had tests that you had to take before you could vote."

"...Weren't those tests just made for African-Americans by racists? And didn't they just test rudimentary things like their literacy?"

"Yes, but you get the idea."

"No, I, I don't think I do."

He paused, unsure of what he himself exactly meant, perhaps backed into a verbal corner in the argument, "Right, so this is your first day, isn't it? You're the new English teacher?" He folded up the paper in his hand.

"Yeah," I said, stunned that we had had this long of a conversation without establishing that.

"You have pretty big shoes to fill," he paused. "Not literally. I'm not saying he had big feet or anything." He thought this over a bit more and raised his eyebrows, "Though they were kind of large, and the man probably should never wear sandals or anything. He did once and (I'm not one to gossip) but not a pretty sight, let me tell you. He might have a disease. Or a fungus. Is fungus the right word? Heh, you're the English teacher. Or going to be anyways. Is fungus the right word?"

There was a short silence. "I'm not sure," I said, at a loss.

He paused, "Right, well, welcome aboard, Patrick." He offered his hand and leaned in close to my ear, "And if you need anything, just let me know." He smiled and looked me in the face for about thirty more seconds. The whole ordeal was very uncomfortable. Only after this was over did I realize that I didn't know his name. And he hadn't asked for mine, he just knew.

Outside of his door, I took a piece of paper out of my pocket, and read what I already knew -- 202. This was the door to my classroom. I scanned the numbers, saw that they descended to the right, and went that direction. There was a strange anxiety in that walk. It felt like as soon as I entered the room, class would begin, which clearly wasn't the case. 

I pulled out my keys and had the appropriate one ready as soon as I reached the lock. The lock sort of fussed, and I wondered if this was a good omen. Leaning my body weight against the wall did the trick, as it jarred open, and I stumbled into the room.

I flicked the switch quickly, and the clear florescent light buzzed with electricity. It was easy to see that the room was very plain and very white. Yes, that much was certain. From the faceless concrete walls, blank except for the indentions of brick, to the dry erase board, the room was very white. I laid my suitcase on the rickety brown desk straight from the 1800's and sighed with content.

----

A big, tall man came back into the room and sat at his desk, shuffling papers. He looked up, "Oh, the principal will see you now."

Louise got up from her stalwart position on the couch (for what seemed like hours but had only been minutes) and went into the room.

Louise gave the man a smile, which he did not feel obligated to return. He looked at her passingly, as if he did not care for her at all. Louise walked through the narrow, tight hallway that led to his office, the light at the end of the tunnel. Even though she was given permission to come in, she felt obligated to rap on the door a couple of times. Hearing a low murmur, she opened the door and peeked her head inside.

"Hi, I'm--"

"Come in! Come in!" said the principal, beckoning her forward with his arms.

She meekly opened the door wide and closed it behind her. After allowing herself a few moments of composure, she made her way and sat down on the chair in front of the principal's imposing desk.

The principal was a rather distracted, short fellow in a navy blue suit and regal red tie. Louise wondered how it felt to dress in a suit each and every day of his job.

The principal squinted through his eyeglasses as he read a piece of paper, "You were the one who brought in the application earlier for the cafeteria job?"

"No, not at all," Louise blurted and then re-composed herself, "I just wanted to ask about a teaching job."

"Oh," the principal said. He almost looked disappointed. Apparently, there had been a lack of cafeteria workers.

A beat passed as they stared at each other.

Louise remembered, "Here's my resume and some other things."

She passed the manila folder from her lap to the principal who palmed it. He looked through it for scarcely thirty seconds.

"Well, we don't really have any vacancies at this time," he said flippantly.

"Oh," said Louise, disheartened. 

"Of course, vacancies could come up in the future. We can, uh, always keep this on file. In case, something comes up we could give you a call."

He gestured with a file, asking if he should indeed file it away. She nodded.

"You know, this isn't really the best time to inquire as to vacancies. I know we filled a vacancy as late as last May, but I think its unheard of for them to come any later."

"Yeah, I know. It's just really hard to get a hold of anyone in the summer, and I didn't really think about it before then."

"It is just unfair to the children is all, to bring someone in so unprepared, just off the beaten path."

Louise paused. "Yeah," she said pensively. She wasn't expecting a sort of veiled lecture at her laziness.

The principal rised and offered her a hand, apparently reaching some very important business deal. Louise, surprised, extended her hand in a kneejerk reaction. She reined it back in, then extended it again, and they shook awkwardly. He smiled, and then sat back down and went through papers on his desk.

As Louise left the offices, she was wondering what exactly she was expecting. She sighed to herself as she thought of a million better scenarios.

The principal was a rather distracted, short fellow in a navy blue suit and regal red tie. Louise wondered how it felt to dress in a suit each and every day of his job.

"Well, it seems like you're in luck because our department head just tendered her resignation. How would you like to be the new head of our English department?"

Louise was taken aback, "I, I would love it. Thank you. When can I start?"

"Not today," said the professor sternly. "Because today, your first order of business is to go home immediately and celebrate with a great big bowl of ice cream!" The professor said this with his finger in the air and with great exuberance for someone he did not know at all.

Louise smiled, "Great!"

The principal was a rather distracted, short fellow in a navy blue suit and regal red tie. Louise wondered how it felt to dress in a suit each and every day of his job.

"Well, you seem to have a firm grasp of the English language. When can you start?"

"Uh, I could start tomorrow if you wanted."

"Alright then. In the meantime, feel free to help yourself to a great big bowl of ice cream in the teacher's lounge."

"Okay!"

The principal was a rather distracted, short fellow in a navy blue suit and regal red tie. Louise wondered how it felt to dress in a suit each and every day of his job.

The principal opened a tub of Breyers Ice Cream that was on the side of his desk and presented two white bowls with spoons in them. He looked up intently, "Ice cream?"

"Sure!"

Louise snapped back into reality. She wondered where she could get an ice cream cone around here.

"Hey."

Louise had passed Patrick. He was roughly the same as he had looked that morning, except his hair was a bit scruffier, his posture a bit more slouched. He seemed more at ease to Louise.

"No tie," she observed.

"Yeah," he said, reaching to his neck, fastening an imaginary one. "Turns out its not a prereq to the job. Plus, I just really hate ties." He laughed at the blunt statement.

"I was just, uh, asking about any openings," she pointed to the left in a sweeping motion as if she had come that direction. To the left was a brick wall, and she hadn't.

"I didn't know you were interested in teaching."

She frowned, "I'm not. Really."

A beat passed.

"Uh, sorry, I gotta go," he said, raising the papers he was carrying, "I was copying these papers for my class. And I'm pretttty sure that this instructional video on noun-verb agreement is going to end in like, two seconds."

"Sounds like a harrowing day."

"It takes some getting use to," he agreed and headed the other direction.

Certainly does, she thought.

----

I was stunned. In all my fantasies about what teaching would be like, it was always the kids that were the bane of my existence. What a strange turn of events that it ends up the complete opposite.

"Look at this garbage," scoffed the annoying man with the bow tie, whom I had found out was named Larry.

He gestured towards the television, which was placed (almost permanently) on CNN. At times like these, when everyone else in the room was silent, it seemed like Larry was having a private conversation with the news anchor.

"You know, everyone says that CNN is liberal, but its bought off by conservatism just like the rest of the media," he said in between mouthfuls of sandwich. He gestured with the sandwich like a telestrator as he talked.

At times, I would get bored and chip in, "Isn't it the other way around?"

Larry was shocked at any opposition, "What?"

I treaded carefully, "Well, isn't it always implied that the media is liberal because so much comes from California and New York."

"Where did you hear that from? A show like this?" he pointed to the television with his sandwich.

I shrugged, and the argument was more or less over. We sat in a tan-colored, closet-sized room with a table, a refrigerator, and a mounted television. For a teacher's lounge, there was nothing to lounge in either as the chairs were standard issue from the classes. You could make an argument they were worse. The entire environment was very suffocating.

Everyone else in the teacher's lounge was not talkative today. Besides Larry and myself, three other teachers stationed themselves around the small, circular, oak table.

George, a rather quiet, more deliberate person, was grading homework papers as fast as he could. He was the kind of person that did not want to bring his work home with him, despite the compound word from the classroom. I would guess that he makes a ton of errors, never helps his students, and will continue to teach this way for years.

On the first occasion that I met him, he shared his family photos. There's something to be said for a man that does not smile in any of them. And he had managed to pack a lot of photos in his wallet too.

Jack, a tall, lanky fellow, reclined in his chair and watched CNN with little interest. He was a former All-American linebacker at this high school. He originally went to college on a football scholarship but was quickly lost in the shuffle of college athletics. So, he dropped out of the program after a year and pursued a teaching career. And here he is. He's not very enthuastic about it though.

"What made you want to be a teacher?" I once asked.

"It's a living," he shrugged and took a swig of soda, "Gotta play the hand you're dealt."

And then there was Lindsay, who just looked tired today. That was really the only reasoning behind her not arguing with Larry about something or other. Larry almost looked disappointed that she wasn't engaging in any verbal sparring. 

"When is everyone going to see the light on Iraq?" he said dramatically, with a sideways glance towards her. She just stared back.

Lindsay was a skinny girl of about medium height with jet black hair and a keen fashion sense. I really have no idea about fashion myself, but everything she wears seems to fit her perfectly. It even fits the mood of the day in a weird way. Like if its cloudy and overcast, she might be caught wearing a dark blue turtleneck. If its sunny, some loudly colored dress with flowers or whatnot.

She gave the impression of a woman who had figured everything out rather quickly. She was already married with one child and the possibility of another on the way (as well as maternity leave.) In other words, she was about two or three lightyears ahead of me in the game of life. It was not altogether annoying when she brought up her daughter, but it felt like every day brought a new, slightly grotesque story of her daughter throwing up or something.

One time, she even said, "Last night, she screamed the cutest little scream. It was like, she depends on you for everything in life. It just gets you sometimes."

She smiled and looked up as if picturing the paradise in her head. The cutest little scream? It is this kind of stuff that drives me crazy. 

"Lindsay, is the screaming getting to you?" I offered today. She just fixed a cold, withering stare on me that she held until I was forced to look away. Well, really it was more vacant than that, but it was still pretty disturbing.

"Pfft, I will never have kids," said Jack, matter-of-factly. "Get enough of it here."

"You say that now," said George in a rare look up from homework grading.

"I say that forever."

"Yeah, five years ago, maybe I'm saying the same thing too."

"The world is getting overpopulated. People need to stop having children," Larry pointed out.

Lindsay came to life, "What?"

"It's true," Larry affirmed. "I read it somewhere."

"And just how long have people been saying that?" Lindsay asked, increduously, "The same people, I might add, who are the biggest hypocrites in politics. It's easy to point out problems, but what are you going to do about it?"

"So what, the world is overpopulated. How is that my fault?" asked Jack.

"I didn't say it was your fault," said Larry.

Lindsay pounced, "But you are more or less punishing him, saying he shouldn't have children."

"He doesn't even want to have children! He just said so himself." Larry defended.

"Yeah, but I'd like the option," said Jack.

George chuckled, "You don't want the option either."

"There is nobody on this planet that is so selfless that they are willing to devote their life to a common good or whatever. Everyone just looks out for themselves. Anyone who says otherwise is full of it," said Lindsay.

Larry retorted, "Why do you go off on these tangents? That's not what I'm talking about at all."

"If you look at it in a broader sense, sure it is. The only people that say "the world is overpopulated" or "I don't want to bring a child into a world like this" or blah blah are just people that aren't having children already anyways."

Larry looked like he was about to say something in response, but he stopped himself. At Larry conceding, everyone sighed and sat back in their seats. This led to a rather awkward silence.

"Is she getting to you?" asked George, as he crossed through a formula.

Lindsay stroked her temples in an attempt to massage away a headache, "It's just," she paused and then as if finding the exact right words, "she doesn't...stop...crying."

He nodded to himself, "Yep."

"No, I'm not just saying that," Lindsay defended, "It really happens. She does not stop."

"It's tough sometimes. You get used to it after awhile. It gets better."

Doing nothing to confirm or deny this, Lindsay drank from her cup of coffee and looked through a red binder. In the span of days, she had seemed to age years. I looked around the room once more and suddenly it seemed much smaller than before.

----

It was two weeks before the man returned. Labor Day, to be exact. Madeline had taken to the entire situation with great curiosity and remained intrigued at what he thought of her suggestion. Since the time, she read it once more, though this time more carefully and leisurely.

When he reached the store's window, he peered out of the corner of his eye to make sure she was there (or that the store was still there) or both. As luck would have it, Madeline happened to be staring out the window so she saw him straight away. One might say that her staring out a window aimlessly on a bored day at the store was not a novel occasion, but there were alternatives.

The ding of the door chimed as he entered. He walked up to her cautiously and said simply, "Well, the book was great."

She smiled, "I'm glad you liked it."

"I'm not entirely sure, but it is a hopelessly sad book," he said, faux-inquisitively.

"Yes, it is."

A pause.

"So who was your favorite character?" he offered.

She looked up, mentally looking through it, "Laura."

He nodded, "In a hopelessly sad book, pick the saddest character."

She laughed, "I think the saddest part of it all is I related to her more than any of them."

Another pause.

He suddenly felt the need to get down to business, "Anyways, part of the reason why I came down here was I was going to ask you about something. I'm actually an English teacher at the school over on 42nd street--"

"I went there," said Madeline.

He smiled, "I am sort of organizing a pseudo book club, which is why I took such an interest last time I was here. I was wondering if you could maybe help out."

"Help out?"

"Nothing too crazy -- just suggest some titles, input in discussions, make sure I'm not destroying reading for the next generation of America's youth, that sort of thing. The main thing is, even though I like reading, I don't really trust myself on knowing books. And old classics aren't really where I want to go with it."

She protested, "I, I don't know. Wouldn't other people at the school be more qualified than me?"

He sighed when thinking about it, "In a way, yeah, but I have a feeling most of them have too much on their plates already anyways. Plus, I don't know them very well."

"You don't know me very well either," she pointed out.

"Yeah, that's--"

"Okay," she interrupted with a smile.

"Really?"

"Yeah, sounds like fun. Did you say when it was?"

"I didn't; I'm thinking Tuesdays after school, something that not on either end of week."

"Sounds logical."

"That's what I was aiming for. Now, we have a good core group of about six to ten kids, who said they are interested. We'll see how it pans out. It's really just a test run at this point, but I feel good about it."

She didn't learn his name until this second encounter, mostly because it was just weird to ask someone their name when you really haven't made any plans to see them again. Apparently, with this new development, he felt the need to go ahead.

"I'm Patrick," he said.

The way he said it struck Madeline as slightly peculiar. He said it as if she had asked him his name, not like he was the one volunteering the information.

So Madeline simply nodded serenely and smiled. She often did this when she was nervous and couldn't think of anything to say. There was something completely innocuous about her mannerisms that impacted her acquaintances more than she knew. It was a strange, almost maternal feeling that everything would work out all right.

Then she noticed Patrick staring expectantly at her and she became self-conscious.

"Oh, I'm Madeline," she stumbled.

As she said this, she extended her hand. Quickly regretting this, she pulled it back before deciding once again to extend it. They shook.

"Do you need any directions or anything on how to get there?" he asked.

"I know my way. That's where I went for high school," she reminded.

"Right, I guess if you went there for four years, you'd know your way," he scratched his hair anxiously, "Well, I'll see you then."

Someone might have taken this meeting as strange, but Madeline did not really think of it in this way at all. She treated it as if she thought all customer interactions were going to be a bit strange. Or anyways, all customer interactions with her would be a bit strange. Madeline's eyes trailed him a bit as the man now known as Patrick left the store.

----

"I dehydrate so easily. I need something to regulate my body temperature," I say with my eyes gazing through the room as if I would find the solution under the end table, "Do you think I should wear shorts?"

He breathed heavily and shifted weight in his large gray recliner.

"Do I think you should wear shorts?" He mumbled to himself even though he'd already decided on an answer, "Well, no. You'll just look odd. Who here isn't wearing shorts? Everybody but you."

"Wouldn't it be easier to say that they would ask 'Who is wearing shorts?' and the answer would be me?"

"No, you still don't get it. The point isn't to isolate you; its to exclude you."

This was the kind of banter that my psychiatrist and I generally engaged in once a week, which for the past couple of months had been Tuesdays. Before that, it was Thursdays, but I wanted to try doing it earlier in the week. Before that, it was Saturdays, but I wanted to try to do it on a weekday. I was now thinking of moving it to Monday.

There are basically two kinds of people who go to psychiatrists. There are people that see them as more or less "problem solvers." These are the type that saw school guidance counselors frequently before college and saw marriage councilors before their wedding. Some sort of catharctic burst or ephiphany moment will happen in these brief sessions, and all their worries will be erased.

And then there are those neurotic types that are the bread and butter of the profession, the "heavy users." These reliable weekly sessions are where the money comes from. Most of these people are hypochondriacs as well, but I'm not one of them. I may not be entirely sure of my health, but I don't really obsess over it.

My sinking feeling is that I was labeled as one of those heavy users two or three years ago, and now the psychiatrist is just reaffirming my fears. And he's just trying to string me along with these inane conversations and hypotheticals. It is probably important to trust your psychiatrist.

I have decided to stop going a thousand times, but for some reason, I can never bring myself to stop. It's a weird kind of addiction. While not as expensive as people say, it is still a bit worrysome for my salary. But I just can't get myself to stop.

Whenever I tell someone that I've been going to a psychiatrist, they are usually instantly fascinated. When you think about it, it isn't really all that notable to me. But alot of people will ask different variations of "Is it working?" When really they mean, "What is wrong with you?"

The whole topic is very iffy to me because every answer I give escalates in my embarrassment. I know I am not the only person to feel emasculated for going to a psychiatrist, like I can't work out my own problems. But it's not really just a man/woman thing. It's more being singled out as someone who is crazy, or perhaps even worse, someone who thinks he's crazy.

In a way, I am crazy. But the mood stablizers take care of that pretty well. I have to take two of them after breakfast each morning and two of them after dinner each night. Now this would really be the expensive part if my health care wasn't up to par. 

Before I took the stabilizers, from time to time, my moods would swing violently. There would be times when I would just be angry all the time. Like, irrationally angry. My imagination worked overtime in this state, so I constantly projected these fantasy scenarios onto people. Like, for example, one time I walked into a grocery store and claimed that one of the clerks was my biological father. I yelled at him for about five minutes, asking him why he disowned me. For some reason, I also thought he fixed the World Series.

When I was younger, my parents would from time to time look at me warily, like people do to gangsters in a dark alleyway or to their grandparents in a nursing home. I think they were scared that I would go on a murderous rampage or something because we switched to plastic utensils.

"We were tired of washing so many dishes," my mom said, looking to my father for verification.

"Yeah, it's just easier this way."

I never really confronted anyone about it. It was just too awkward. With the stabilizers, my mood was usually light, and the conversation was usually light. So everything was light.

At first, I was tired all the time. I would sleep about twelve to fourteen hours a day. This was some sort of side effect, and after awhile, it wore off. I think I was the first person in the history of high school to actually have a legitimate reason for falling asleep in class. So that was good.

About midway through our conversation, I am desperately trying to retrace just how this ever got brought up.

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