Over and over and over and over/ the smell of repetition really is on you
Even though I have an endless expanse of time to do basically anything I feel like within the limitations of geography and budget (about $2.50, more or less), I still like to keep things in context, for the day when I may own up and actually find employment. For some reason Saturday seems like the day to run mundane errands, for no particular reason. Although, it may also have something to do with being able borrow my mom’s vehicle on that day, while my own car is in the shop. And so I can drive around town making loaded eye contact with strangers, and not really impress anyone all too much, because, let’s face it, my mom's car isn't that sweet.

I have to drop some stuff off at the Salvation Army, and while I'm there I look around. The main problem with shopping thrift, however, as with most things, is the other people who shop there (a recent conversation with a friend, based around all the weird people in our lives, turned out to reveal that we, in fact, are the only inhabitants of the high moral plain of non-weird people we know—pretty weird, I know). I have not yet degenerated into the type of human who wears an iPod everywhere I go, and so I have to contend with the masses. Which broils down, pretty much, to an entire onslaught of sketchy vagrants and some dude yelling at his 3-year-old son. “Cameron,” he intones in an authoritative voice, “get back over here.” He goes through this routine a few times, the child obediently returning to the guy’s side before being debilitated by some weird stimulus on the miscellaneous rack, which has him wandering away again. I look up from the clothing rack to find the father going after the kid with a determined look. Oh, no, I think; he’s really going to let him have it this time. He brings the kid back around to the other side, yelling in a tone which has the kid bawling and carrying on. It’s kind of peculiar cry, and I listen in on the different variations, which has me thinking twice about my iPod pronouncements. It’s kind of a guttural moan, coming from way deep down. He does this for a while and then begins to ask for his mom to no avail. “No,” the guy says, “You would not behave for mommy, and so you’re just going to have to stay here with me. You don’t listen.” I look over at this guy, wondering if there’s some better way to go about this. The kid then increases the intensity of the crying and I find it becoming the background music for my shopping experience. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, he cries, crescendoing to a peak, and then back down again, my own eardrum seemingly beginning to reside in the shill and grainy wah-producing part of this kid’s throat. I’ve got to get out of here, I think, tossing aside the shirt I have and hustling for the exits.

Out of doors. Taking in a breath of the gauzy, mid-summer air. Oh, dear god, I think; this is horrible. It’s hard to take sometimes, this climate. I have asthma, a respiratory condition thereby inflaming the bronchial tubes and decreasing the lungs’ capacity for taking in air. Sometimes you can feel yourself, on the verge of death, as some kind stranger brings you medication, placing an asthma inhaler between your purple lips, and having you breath the contents deep inside. The medicine I take is expensive, and is illicitly taken from the office of a doctor one of my mom’s friends works at. Mostly, they are free samples, without which I would not be able to breathe. And it’s weird for my existence to be so precariously situated on this act of altruism. Thank you, I would like to say to my mom’s friend. It means a lot. What’s weirder, though, is to inhabit a body which makes a mad dash towards death every time you stop paying attention. Walk into a moldy basement and that could be the end for you. There are worse afflictions, though, I’m sure. My own aunt, actually, has asthma ten times worse than I do, and was forced to retire from her job because of some type of work place allergens (sic). And surely, there are all manner of other afflictions which an older age has yet to reveal to me. The moral of which is, be thankful for the lungs of the body which carries you around in.

The medicine I take costs about $150.00 for a one-month’s supply, meaning that it costs about $5.00 a day without health insurance to breathe. That’s not easy to come by, I think, $5. 00 a day; I had better make all this breathing worthwhile. The air is heavy today, weighted down with humidity. You can feel it making its way into your lungs, as you stride into the superstore, little jets of air blasting you from above the automatic door. What do I need, I think, surveying the store, which stretches out at my feet like an absurd dream. I’m pretty much sure that I have enough money in my bank account to afford the basic survival items, which are apples and bread. Strolling around the store, as I often do, I begin to entertain the fantasy that I could get a cart and fill it with whatever items I like. That’s what separates you from being truly bourgeois, I realize, the kind of cart you’re wielding. And I’m not even carrying a basket.

I arrive to the checkout with the essential items. The guy bagging groceries today has the nicest afro I have ever seen in my entire life, which is not even some appropriation of a hairdo from long ago but is actually the anachronistic style of someone who never stopped believing, accompanied by a walrus moustache. Nice, I think. The apples and bread are slid down to the afro-coifed person on a conveyor belt, which he dutifully places in a bag. Shortly, I am being told by the cashier that my bankcard has been rejected. Incredible. Amazing, I think. I have enough money in my pocket for at least two apples, but instead I just walk away, past the walrus moustache grocery person, who is holding my groceries.

Back out into the day, the sun blazing down on my ignominious brain. I nod to the homeless man on the corner, as I always do. He’s an asthmatic, I conjecture, cannot eat because he can breathe. I think of asking him, strolling right on over as he strums his acoustic guitar but decide against it. I can’t eat right now, but I recognize the upshot, which is that I will be able to breathe long enough to realize how unlucky that is. Now if someone would make me dinner. Or drop some money into my change cup. That might prolong my existence long enough to make some other kind of mind-blowing discoveries. I probably should find a job, now. Preferably something with benefits. That's a killer.