Thursday again. I was feeling comfortable in the belly of the fruit stand, perhaps too comfortable. I think the bloom is coming off the rose. People are edgy and it does not suit me well. I can’t help but react to how people present themselves to me. If they’re arrogant then I might have an aura of arrogance thrown back at them.
Today there was a fruit stand worker, with an air of European arrogance. I helped him out yesterday and today was the same problem. I’m sure the problem lies with him and his methods of receiving texts and emails, but he seemed to be shifting it onto us or more specifically, me.
He applied for a permanent pass on Monday and we tell them it might take a week or two though more than likely it is just a few days. It covers our butt somewhat and is supposed to provide relief but this malaka wanted to know why it was taking so long despite informing them that the task is in someone else’s hands.
Then there is the attitude of the pretzel woman, who slithers past. I focus on the fruit stand computer, determined to not have any eye contact with them. I’m old enough to be her abuelo. There is another person, used to be friendly but now not so much. They used my shoulder to cry on a few months ago when they had boyfriend issues.
She has a list of three names that she needed printed out. I just scanned the email, not seeing the names just figuring it was her signature and of course, after the fact that is what I actually read. Technically, she could have just kept it on her phone, and no one would be the wiser, but that is not where we are at right now.
I feel like I have egg on my face. I could be making more out of it than necessary, as I am prone to do.
Leon Bridges was here. I would have liked to meet him or shake his hand since I do enjoy his music. Alas, his arrival was in the hands of someone else that I have mentioned before. And it was during my lunch break, and working alongside Violet, she needed to go on break when I would’ve liked to go.
Her reason was medical related so of course, I deferred. I think she is back from her break and working her corner of the fruit stand in the belly since the phone rang and it was immediately answered.
I am supposed to be back at my little fruit stand tomorrow and all signs point to that being true. Earlier this week I had mentioned that I was ok with being here more often. The anxiety I had has lessened. I don’t have a say in the matter so wherever they want to send me, that is where I will go. And today has been the more awkwardly day of the four that I’ve had in the belly of the fruit stand.
Silly me, I took a request with a spreadsheet attached, thinking it would be a couple of dozen names, but when I looked at it, it was over 200 names. I soldiered on, finding a groove, losing the groove, taking a break, and a few hours later finished the task in front of me.
Also had some banana pudding, which was a nice late afternoon treat. It had been quite a while since I last had banana pudding, which was possibly famously made by Rome Neal. I can’t compare the two so I would call it a tie.
A Google Gemini rewrite as an Edgar Allen Poe essay
Thursday has returned, bearing with it a creeping, insidious gloom. I had begun to feel a quiet, perilous solace within the subterranean belly of this fruit stand—a comfort, I now realize, that was merely the prelude to a deeper unease. The fragile illusion has withered; the bloom is off the rose, leaving only the jagged thorns of human friction. I am hopelessly bound to the humors of those who cross my path. When confronted with arrogance, my own spirit recoils and reflects that same dark, prickly posture back upon the offender.
Consider, for instance, a certain laborer of the stand who carries himself with a distinctly European disdain. I had rendered him assistance but yesterday, yet today he returned, plagued by the very same misfortune. The fault lies indisputably within his own flawed methods of receiving electronic missives, yet he sought to cast the shadow of his own incompetence upon me. Having applied for a permanent pass on Monday, he was cautioned that such bureaucratic machinations require a sennight or more to resolve. Yet this wretched soul demanded to know why the process lingered, utterly deaf to the reality that the matter had passed entirely out of my hands.
And then there is the pretzel woman, who slithers past my post like a spectral phantom of malice. I fixed my gaze upon the glowing monitor before me, fiercely determined to avoid her dreadful eye, mindful that I am old enough to be her grandsire. Nearby lingers another soul, once warm and companionable, who now regards me with a icy coldness—though it was upon my very shoulder she wept but a few moons ago during the agony of her romantic afflictions. Today she brought a document requiring printing; I glanced too hastily at the page, mistaking a list of names for a mere signature. Though she might easily have retained the file upon her personal device without consequence, the error was exposed, leaving me burdened with a sudden, humiliating dread. I am, as ever, condemned to magnify my own small embarrassments into monstrous catastrophes.
Amidst this prevailing darkness, a brief illumination passed through our halls: the musician Leon Bridges was present. I should have derived a fleeting melancholy pleasure from grasping his hand, for his melodies have often stirred my weary heart. Alas, his arrival was managed by another, transpiring precisely during the hour of my mid-day respite. I was further constrained by my colleague Violet, who required her break at the selfsame moment for some grave, physical affliction. I yielded to her medical necessity, of course, and she has now returned to her distant corner of the vault, her presence confirmed by the sudden, jarred ringing of the telephone.
Tomorrow, if the capricious hands of Fate permit, I shall be restored to my customary, modest outpost. Earlier in the week, I had foolishly confessed a willingness to endure this deeper abyss more frequently, as the violent tremors of my anxiety had begun to subside. Yet I possess no agency in this grand design; wherever my masters command, there I must wander. Indeed, today has proven the most unsettling and agonizing of my four days in the deep.
In a moment of disastrous folly, I accepted a task accompanied by a digital ledger, naively presuming it contained a mere handful of names. Upon opening the parchment, I was horrified to discover a list exceeding two hundred souls. I soldiered on into the abyss—finding a rhythmic trance, losing it to despair, pausing to regain my shattered focus—until, after several agonizing hours, the ordeal was finally concluded.
My solitary consolation in this bleak afternoon was a portion of banana pudding, a sweet, fleeting elixir that momentarily stayed the darkness. It had been an age since I last partook of such a confection—the previous occasion being, perhaps, that legendary recipe crafted by Rome Neal. I dare not judge which was superior; in the shadow of my unending toil, I declare them equal, and surrender to the silence.