Reality's Joke

It hadn’t been raining that long, but she felt

as if she’d been sunk for all her years. Life

seemed to have gained a pull in the obsolete game

of tug-a-war. The window was covered in fog,

creating a hardly visible view, even from an

optimists view. Her, be an optimist? Oh she tried

certainly, she did try. It was the only way she

could ever fit in-be an optimist! Stop being so

typical, step of your box and take the paper bag

off your head. Be yourself,but make sure you fit

in. How did that work out? Can any mathematical

genius solve that equation?


The papers went scrambling to the floor as she

reached to pick them up before wandering eyes

could read them. Her writing was not for others or

for anyone in that matter. It was just something

she did. With a small push her headphones were

securely in place. Not a single person noticed or

cared to pay attention, she just chuckled quietly

to herself. The family a few rows behind with the

snot-nosed kids would notice her soon enough.It

was no question where they were headed. The brakes

screamed to a halt as they picked up more

passengers, more superficiality, and more polite

chatter. A few stares, maybe, but generally not a

look passed her way, and that was fine. It was

always a wonder what attention meant to her.


Her right of passage had already occurred, she’d

made her great escape, narrowly missing flying

pottery thrown by some relative or another, as she

left, left the dingy town and its dingy people.

People, who were always moping around the street;

again and again,lollygagging and not doing a

damned thing to change it. The immobile, she

always liked to call them. It was stepped across

her mind- what was she looking for exactly? Was

it an actual object or just some kind of personal

accolade? Personal accolades always made

you pay a price, such a costly, costly, price.

She’d done plenty of paying, to others, for

those unspoken credentials. Maybe people

speculated about her going, going on and on

from town to town, just participating in her

costly accolades. But maybe it wasn’t that.


Perhaps she was just slow, slow with the times,

slow with life. But being slow, was it such a bad

thing? Oh, they’d said, it was out of society’s

standards, out of the times. A big no-no.

Stare, stare, and stare. For whatever reason, it

was her magnetism. Forget a dashing Splenda

sweetened personality- her forte was being stared

at. Anyone, everyone, seemed to do it. See her

there, don’t yourself fall that far, that’s just a

let down. So many business people and cheap

leather suitcases, trench coats and cancer blocks.

Her occupation held her solely to one age, but it

was an age of happiness and smiles. Throw this,

catch that,smile, grin, don’t forget to please

the kiddies, ignore the unenthused parents, you’re

all for the youth! Youth, it’s the time of

indecision, stupidity with hormones, and sheer

vanity. Right here, right now, that was her motto.

Paint your face, hide your feeling’s,fold and

bend things with a obnoxious laugh and lacquer

face. Don’t argue just do. It was a commonality

she was always preached, every day, winding in,

out and around. Obey and get paid. Staring got her

where she is, got her a job, a blank white

purpose, small and duly noted by government

officials.


The streets vanished by so quickly, blurred

together like crème in a cup, a cup of

whatever your joe is. She always found herself

being so cynical but it made for the best

amusement, and that’s all she was ever good for.

Get your thousands but you’ve got to entertain,

entice and move forward, or you’re just a useless

bint. A bint in the scheme.

Sometimes she wanted them closer, someone to leech

onto, someone to ease her typical societal fears,

but they were furthermore the worst possible

answer. They wouldn’t denounce a thing, the just

laughed, mockingly, horribly. Laughed and pointed,

pointed like a thorn, a thorn stuck in the scheme.

Her Dad’s motto was innocence equaled arrogance,

something she’d never grasped, and something just

far too politically correct.


But her Dad, her dear Pops. What a useless blob

he’d been at times. You could reach to the depths

of earth for him and it wouldn’t mean a damn

thing, not in the slightest possible way. How

could she forget the maroon carpet, seeping with

memories? So maroon, dark, so smooth. That’s when

she knew she was done for, maroon hadn’t ever

been her favorite color. Bitter, bitter, she knew

it consumed her veins, her bitterness hiccupped

from time to time, and hen she was normal, but

only in jest. Always so funny, those maroon

splotches.


Jesting was her best bet. You couldn’t say she’d

ever been one for humor, no, no really. Nothing

was ever really funny for her. Bright faces with

reds and yellows, mashing together, like a round

red ball, bouncing, bouncing, and laughter and

crack happy music. Not really her scene, but now

her job. It’s where all her professionalism laid,

being crack addict happy. No one gave a lab-rat’s

behind if you had a bad day, her job demanded

empathy, darn it! Be empathetic, don’t entertain

apathy. You aren’t making money to be a blubbering

mess of rainbows. Her thoughts were dampened as

man sat next to her, similar in face, personality,

an equal. He smiled, but didn’t dare utter a

word. Minutes clicked and clacked on by, the music

dulling her thoughts. It was essence to make sure

she had everything with her, ever last scratch and

attention to detail, her being. The bus screamed

to a halt, yet again, letting her go, letting her

weed her way to her optimistic standard. Pushing

her way through the unsure unfamiliarity, she felt

a bump, a jolt, maybe a few snickers, but that was

a delicious candy for the afterlife. The man was

closely behind, huffing and puffing, as if it was

some kind of desperate race, get yourself to the

front, women and children first! But it wasn’t,

not in any respect. He ideals were all wrong.


The bus driver rolled his eyes, such a negative

Nancy that one. She smiled politely, leaving a few

spare coins on the dash, He’d find some kind of

gift for the wife, mooch her up a little, and win

himself a little something. It was her good deed

for the day, an ever undoubting task. The man

grabbed her, spinning her around, almost like a

lovesick movie scene.

“Um, ma’m. You forgot your clown shoes.” He said

quietly, holding out the brightly colored

mechanics. Such was her day, forgetting right off

the bat. Oh, but she would stand, unaffected.

The true jokester.