Monday, May 19, 2003

“Here’s the problem. I have the map out in front of me, but I’m not sure where to go.”

“Yeah, that is a problem.”

“You’re telling me.”

“What about there? Picket fences are white, but not too white–that would just be tasteless. Well-populated too. You want?”

“Too early to say. Well-populated? At this point, at this moment, no one likes popular.”

“If it’s fashionable to dislike the mean, doesn’t that become the new mean?”

“Shut up.”

“Fine, fine. And there? Not too many people there. You’d like it.”

“It’s too dark for me. Too many alleys. Visibility wouldn’t be too good there.”

“Chickenshit.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve got to choose, right? I’ve got to choose soon.”

“Yep, you don’t really have a choice. I mean, people are getting off left and right.”

“Aw, nuts. Forgot this wasn’t the freeway.”

“What? What’s wrong with you? How can you do that?”

“Well, if you look down at your hands, look down at your knees, you kind of forget, you know? And if you hum and listen, listen and hum, it helps you forget. You can’t tell if it’s upholstery or some derivation of scratched, high-gauge plastic.”

“You’re getting a bit too cryptic for me. What are you talking about?”

“I’m wondering whether I forgot to transfer. 33 more stops, and we’re done. People always joke about waking up at the end of the line–“

“–yeah, at that mystical station for the tired, the poor, the huddl–“

“–yeah, sleeping until everything comes to a halt. Everyone jokes about it, but I don’t think it’s ever actually happened to anyone.”

“As well it shouldn’t. That would just be depressing.”

“You’re telling me.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’m not sure, actually.”

“You don’t have time to be sure.”

“Well, then, I’ll make time.”