Monday, April 11, 2011
I am the Ostrich, goo goo g'joob.
Her hair, coifed in that overly short, low maintenance way, hung in vaguely straight, ragged clumps like a Japanese cartoon character. Often, style is completely absent from hairstyle. Her unblinking eyes, magnified by large thick glasses, scanned the entryway like klieg lights at a prison riot. In Winter, her calf high boots and fleece vest, worn over the requisite red polo shirt and a turtleneck, gave her a vaguely sinister look; like a Scandinavian Nazi. Not heinous, but like a cheap effort at heinous in order to fit in with an occupier. More accurately perhaps, she looked like a Swedish Nazi in a drag show; if there could ever be such a thing.
When she sauntered into the breakroom during my lunch, I smiled and went back to my smart phone. She sat at a table across the room and began twitching like a nervous bird. Her gigantic ostrich eyes panned the room, each time jerking back to a point at a purposely obtuse angle from me. I swept the phone's screen with my finger, turning a virtual page.
"Playing a game?" she asked. The sentence fragment crashed around the room like a tear gas canister.
"Oh, no," I offered, "I'm reading." I'm nearly forty seven years old, but she thinks I'm playing a game on my phone.
"What's it about?" she asked, as three errant sniper rounds smacked into the back wall.
"Well, the Daily Beast has a panel of five authors discussing the new, posthumously published, novel of David Foster Wallace. He was a famous author who killed himself a few years ago. He wrote fascinating, densely detailed books that I have never been able to actually read." I had rambled on, without a breath, as if I was at a writers conference or in a bookshop coffee bar. Instead, I was sitting in an overly warm breakroom, deep in the aseptic bowels of a big box retail store, having lunch during my shift at a minimum wage subsistence job.
With a Wiley Coyote creaky stretching sound, her neck pushed her tiny head toward the dirty panels of the dropped ceiling. Little plinks echoed off the institutional laminate walls as little feathers, like peach fuzz, sprang from behind her ears and at the neck of her sweater. With a disgusting smack, her upper lip slid down toward her chin like a beak, and her cheeks sucked in around her teeth. The sinewy tendrils of her throat and neck twitched. I could hear individual tastebuds being peeled from the roof of her mouth in a dry swallow. Those huge eyes, free from the thick glasses, plinked sharply in the dead air. Big pink eyelids closed, and then raised again. A terrified ostrich, she just looked at me. Her beak swung nervously toward a noise in the hall, and abruptly snapped back to me and my phone. I went back to my reading. The sterile silence was only broken by the rustle of feathers and the scraping blink of those huge, dry eyes.
More noise crashed in from the hall and two girls walked in. The feathers and the plinking eyes were drowned out by the swish-swish saunter of polyester pants and single mothers. With a wet plop, the Swedish Nazi countenance returned. The ostrich was gone.
"How are you doing today?" she practically shouted at the girls. Like a roadside bomb, she had destroyed the conversation the two single moms had been having, and obliterated the uncomfortable presence of my phone and I. We were a round peg she could not assimilate into her square world. I stroked the screen and went back in my virtual coffee bar.
Image lifted from http://www.visitcumbria.com/pen/eden-ostrich-world.htm