I'm sure you've heard the saying, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
We all have. It's one of those quotes you learn in Kindergarten. It's a phrase your Teachers, Parents, Bishop/priest/guru and whoever the fuck give people advice, utters throughout the first twelve or so years of our lives. I for one, attend to live by these rules. If I don't have anything nice to say, I simply don't say anything at all.
I just say it behind your back.
Sitting across from computer number one, is computer number three. Sitting behind computer number three is some guy whose name I don't know. Sitting behind computer number one is me. Sitting to the right of computer number one is computer number 2. Sitting behind computer number 2 is George. George(if your still reading after that fucking long and confusing paragraph), is a writer. COMIC BOOK Writer actually. His comic series titled, "Big George" is an LDS based comic book series that takes place throughout the Salt Lake Valley.
One thing about George that I don't think George knows, he's never met me before.
"Hi." Says George
The same people who tell you to never say anything mean about anyone, I think those are the same people who told me to never talk to strangers.
"Hello, how are you?"I say
My right index finger clicks the mouse that clicks the Internet Explorer icon.
"Not so good. I'm getting a divorce." he says
I squint and stare hard into his face.
"Yeah, came home from work last week and Susan had all my stuff moved out." George says
I continue to squint and continue to stare. Nothing comes to me.
"I can't believe she left me for someone twenty years younger. I just don't know what I'm going to do."
His eyes start to tear up.
For Thanksgiving I was invited over to my in-laws house. My in-laws hate me. I ate dinner with them. It was uncomfortable.
Right now, at this moment, I would rather be passing potatoes to my father in law, taking dressing from my Mother in-law, watching football with my brother in-law. THAT was uncomfortable.
This feels worse.
I turn my focus towards computer screen number one. I type in the web address for my Gmail account.
There is a response from "Calling People Names" regarding my last blog entry.
She says it reminds her of the movie Porky's.
She says "it's pretty funny dude."
She also wants to know if I know any foreigners with huge wangers.
I write back. I tell her the coalition of Huge Wangers has black listed me due to the great indecent in-exposure of 1999. I tell her myself, and a bunch of my small dick'd buddies marched across the continental U.S. spreading our word for equality and the un-endowed.
Actually, I never typed these things. I was distracted
"Yeah so, enough about me, how are things going for you." He says
"um...good." I say with reluctance.
"Yeah well, that's good. My youngest one, well, she's dating a man who's four years older than her. Her boyfriend doesn't have the decency to come and introduce himself. She's never home, out all hours of the night..."
The face behind computer number three slides to my left. He stares me down. His brown beady eyes say "shut the fuck up."
I stare back. My eyes say "It's not me it's him." The face disappears back behind computer screen number three.
I open my facebook. I try and think of a quote that people will respond to. I need people to respond to my quotes. It makes me feel loved.
..."and then there's my dog.” He continues “O my precious Priscilla." he tears up again.
He tells me his dog was hit by a truck last week. He tells me it survived but has a broken Leg. He tells me he doesn't think he can nurse it back to health with everything that's been going on.
George, this man I've never met before, places his right hand on my left arm.
"Do you..." his lips are trembling..."do you think you could take her? My baby Priscilla? You know, take care of her for me."
I squint and stare.
I have never met this man before.
I'm sure of it.
While I have no intention of accepting his offer, I feel inclined to ask;
"What kind of dog is it?"
George tells me It's a blue Tick, Blue Healer mix.
In the search box to the top right, I type in;
"Blue Tick, Blue Healer Mix."
Google tells me the Blue Tick, Blue Heeler mix are “a breed of brave and trustworthy animals.”
I don't need anyone showing me up at home.
"Sorry, I don't think I have any room."
His eyes continue to run.
"That's okay." he says "I know you would if you could." He removes his hand from my arm.
A voice from computer number 3 says;
"If you two aren’t gonna shut up, I guess I'll just leave.” The man behind computer screen number 3 stands up from behind his monitor. “Fucking Assholes!” he says
The man from computer number 3 leaves.
The man from computer number two is crying. He’s bawling his fucking eyes out.
In the search box to the top right I type
“Strangers who think they know you but don’t.”
It takes me to website www. projectexperience.com
It looks like a message board. The consensus is
Since there is no connection or relationship between the two, One of, if not both of the parties feel like they can open up, tell the other individual anything. Since this individual will likely never see other party, they feel there will be no repercussions to any statements they may share.
This message board looks like it was written by a bunch of 14 year old kids.
I remember when I was 14, my friend Justin shared some of his Mountain dew with me. I had just finished playing basketball in the schoolyard so I was thirsty. It was right after Pepsi came out with their Big Slam Bottles. So, I was thirsty, Justin was there, he offered me a drink.
It was piss
…and I drank it. I drank a Big Slam of Urine. Not the whole bottle. I spit it out. Most of it.
What I’m trying to say is 14 year olds care what other people think. I never wanted to go back to school after that. Of course they feel comfortable sharing things with people they’ve never met.
How does this tie into my story? I don’t know. George is distracting me with his latest comic strip.
Finally, after twenty minutes of sobbing, George stands up from computer number 1.
He hands me a buisness card.It says;
Collector of valuable items
His E-mail address is on the bottom
Before he leaves he says "Thank you for listening."
I place the card in my right front pocket.
So, sitting here, in front of computer number 1, I type my moment with George. A broken man with something to share.
I pull the card from out of my pocket. On the back George has written something.
"It was good to see you again. If you ever have anything you'd love to get off your chest, give me a call. Here is my cell phone number."
The disturbing new is; I still don't think I've ever met George Before.
The okay news is; Next time I see George, I don't have to pretend I've met him.
Then again...maybe I have.