"So Sorry, Old Dude"
My editor calls me a 'minimalist' writer as I rarely describe the characters I write about. I do this because I read Stephen King's awesome book on writing and he said that he likes to leave the character descriptions to the reader. I do too. It's easier as well, but I have to describe the kid I met yesterday.
Let me set the scene.
I headed into Wilson Farms and straight to the coffee island. The kid was in the center of the island dressed in bright red sweatpants and a Hawaiian tee-shirt. He had ear buds in and his I-pod was in the front pocket of the shirt. It was definitely cRAP music in his ear, and it was loud. He had a lot of facial hair but it looked like he'd attempted to shave it into some sort of work of art. Fine. To each his own.
I wouldn't have met him unless we did that little struggle for space in where he moves left, I move left, he moves right, I move right thing.
"Wanna dance?" I asked, as I always do.
"What's that?" he said, taking the thing from his ear.
"We were doing dance moves there," I said with a smile.
"Whatever," he answered.
I made it to the coffee. I added a little milk and turned to get a lid. The kid was now holding his phone in his hand, head down, texting someone. He didn't look up at all until he smacked right into me.
"So sorry, old dude," he said.
What do you do with something like that?
I thought of what my father and all of my brothers might have done in such a situation. I imagined the ear buds and the cell phone flying all over the island as the kid's face was smashed off the counter where the stale donuts are stored.
And 'Old Dude?'
When did I become 'old dude?' I suppose I can certainly be perceived as an old dude, but who the hell wants to hear it from a clueless kid, spinning in a circle, oblivious to anything that doesn't have something to do with him?
"Sorry," he said again. "Where are the lids?"
I didn't smash his face off the counter, but I didn't answer him, either. In a second I decided that the best course of action was to just get the hell away.
I was about thirty feet away from him in second place in the checkout line when the kid dropped his coffee on the floor and yelled 'Shit.'
"God, the new generation is really clueless," the middle-aged woman in front of me in the line said.
Indeed.
"Old Dude."
I should've introduced his mis-shaven face to the counter.
Let me set the scene.
I headed into Wilson Farms and straight to the coffee island. The kid was in the center of the island dressed in bright red sweatpants and a Hawaiian tee-shirt. He had ear buds in and his I-pod was in the front pocket of the shirt. It was definitely cRAP music in his ear, and it was loud. He had a lot of facial hair but it looked like he'd attempted to shave it into some sort of work of art. Fine. To each his own.
I wouldn't have met him unless we did that little struggle for space in where he moves left, I move left, he moves right, I move right thing.
"Wanna dance?" I asked, as I always do.
"What's that?" he said, taking the thing from his ear.
"We were doing dance moves there," I said with a smile.
"Whatever," he answered.
I made it to the coffee. I added a little milk and turned to get a lid. The kid was now holding his phone in his hand, head down, texting someone. He didn't look up at all until he smacked right into me.
"So sorry, old dude," he said.
What do you do with something like that?
I thought of what my father and all of my brothers might have done in such a situation. I imagined the ear buds and the cell phone flying all over the island as the kid's face was smashed off the counter where the stale donuts are stored.
And 'Old Dude?'
When did I become 'old dude?' I suppose I can certainly be perceived as an old dude, but who the hell wants to hear it from a clueless kid, spinning in a circle, oblivious to anything that doesn't have something to do with him?
"Sorry," he said again. "Where are the lids?"
I didn't smash his face off the counter, but I didn't answer him, either. In a second I decided that the best course of action was to just get the hell away.
I was about thirty feet away from him in second place in the checkout line when the kid dropped his coffee on the floor and yelled 'Shit.'
"God, the new generation is really clueless," the middle-aged woman in front of me in the line said.
Indeed.
"Old Dude."
I should've introduced his mis-shaven face to the counter.
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