I like to keep things going nicely, quietly, and frictionless. Though the music I like often has a little grit in it. Things are usually calm at the fruit stand. So calm that when a pebble is thrown into the pond, it tends to have tsunami effects.
At least in my mind, I tried helping out a coworker earlier, even though the lines are clearly drawn as to what my job is and what my responsibilities are. I had a minute available and thought I would pitch in, roll up my sleeves, and help a young woman doing her job, which is basically the same job I had when working with the Algerians (not from Algeria) years ago.
Stocking shelves, putting items in the fridge, and throwing out expired goods. In so doing, feet might have been stepped on, feelings may have been hurt. I backtracked a few times and explained my lack of malice. That is the problem dealing with people born in or close to the 21st century. Barry McGarry was rife with those kids, an infestation if you will. Here it’s more of the same, but there is a creative air about them, so things can be easily excused, I reckon.
The thermometer is pushing 70 degrees, which is nice, but allergies are coming forth as well, and I swear, I blew most of my body weight in mucus over the past 24 hours. The allergies seem to get worse every year. And here we are in the first half of March, and my nose is raw from soft tissue friction. I took Bill’s advice and had some Nyquil, which dried out my sinuses but also had me going to the bathroom way too often. Apparently, Bill had the same dilemma last night, though thankfully, we were not on the same urinary cycle.
Friction. Occasionally bumping heads with Yancey. I am trying to come across as competent, but the main thing Ithink is to prove I am not an alcoholic, which is easy enough. Last week Kimberky completed some templates for our team to use when needed. I applied them as I worked, but this morning, Yancey told me they were the old templates, and I remarked that these were what I was given.
I tried to fix things myself and made a bit of a mess of it. I returned to the bit of a mess a few times and, after a few hours, was able to get it together and actually figure it out. I asked for Jimmy Chile’s help, but I did not need it after all when I took a chance and clicked here and double-clicked there to find I had fixed whatever it was that I had done.
I’m lactose intolerant. I have been for years but only recognized it a year or so ago. I remember one stupid job I had about 6 years ago at Jaded Toes. I had half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and about an hour later, bells were ringing in my bowels and thankfully, I was able to make it to a toilet without any problems. It could have been a lot worse.
I called this post Geordie Gillespie since he was in Konk, and that is who or what I am listening to at this moment, 3.10.2026. Tuesday.
My head full of mucus. It is like a domino effect. I want to talk to Bill, and he’s unavailable. I try to help 2 21st century girls, and I am rebuffed. A website link that I use for work no longer works for me, though it works for other fruit stand workers a few blocks away. A little over an hour to go before I head home, and it seems so far away. I hope I sleep better tonight than I did last night.
Google Gemini Sarah Vowell rewrite
I like to think of my life as a high-budget historical documentary where nothing actually happens—just a series of static images of me sitting very still, preferably in a room with a low-decibel hum. I want things to be frictionless. I want a world where the only “grit” I encounter is in the bassline of a post-punk record.
But life at the fruit stand isn’t a documentary; it’s more like a low-stakes Greek tragedy. It’s usually so calm that if someone so much as drops a metaphorical pebble into the pond, I experience it as a full-scale tsunami hitting the Jersey shore.
Take this morning. In a moment of uncharacteristic, “we-can-do-it” civic duty, I decided to help a coworker. Now, I know where the lines are drawn. I’ve studied the maps of my job description like they’re the Treaty of Westphalia. But I saw a young woman stocking shelves and throwing out expired goods—which is exactly what I used to do for the Algerians (who, in a very American twist of confusing nomenclature, were not actually from Algeria).
I rolled up my sleeves to pitch in, and in the process, I managed to step on every metaphorical toe in the building. Apparently, being helpful is a micro-aggression when you’re dealing with the 21st-century-born. At my old haunt, Barry McGarry, these kids were an “infestation,” but here at the fruit stand, they have a “creative air” about them. It’s the kind of vibe that makes you want to apologize for existing, which I did, repeatedly, explaining that I lacked any actual malice.
Then there is the weather. It’s 70 degrees in early March, which feels like a lovely, balmy sign of the apocalypse. My body has responded by producing its own weight in mucus. My nose is currently so raw from tissue friction that I look like I’ve been in a bar fight with a cherry tree. I took some NyQuil on the advice of my friend Bill. It dried out my sinuses, sure, but it also turned my bladder into a very busy, very temperamental clock. Bill apparently had the same problem, though I am grateful to report that we are not, in fact, on the same urinary cycle. That’s a level of historical synchronization I’m just not ready for.
Then there’s the friction with Yancey. My primary goal at work, besides doing my job, is to prove that I am not an alcoholic. It’s a low bar, but I’m tripping over it. I used the templates Kimberly gave me, only to have Yancey inform me they were “the old ones.” I tried to fix the digital mess myself, clicking and double-clicking like a frantic telegraph operator, until—miraculously—it worked. I almost asked Jimmy Chile for help, but I solved it before he had to witness my technological incompetence.
And because God apparently enjoys a good punchline, I am also lactose intolerant. I didn’t figure this out until a year ago, which means I spent decades blissfully ignorant of why my internal organs were staging a revolution. I remember eating half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s at a job six years ago—a place called Jaded Toes—and an hour later, the bells in my bowels were ringing with the intensity of the bells at Notre Dame. I made it to the restroom, but it was a close-run thing. A real Waterloo.
So here I am. It’s Tuesday, March 10th. I’m listening to Geordie Gillespie from the band Konk to drown out the sound of my own congestion. My head is full of mucus, Bill is unavailable, the 21st-century girls want nothing to do with me, and the website I need for work has decided to stop working only for *me*. It’s a domino effect of minor inconveniences that feels like a monumental collapse.
I have a little over an hour to go. It feels like forty years. I just hope that tonight, unlike the nights that came before, the historical record shows that I actually got some sleep.
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