Distractions

Distractions
By Nick Munoz
“Extremely Perishable, huh?”, I thought to myself. This is possibly the weirdest food label warning I have ever read and here it is staring at me from its place on my bottle of orange juice. I imagine opening it and a tiny mushroom cloud erupting from the mouth, all the ingredients that made up my juice being vaporized simply because I failed to refrigerate my drink in a timely manner. Shit, my mind is wandering again, back to the task at hand. Why was I here again? Oh that’s right; I am trying to come up with a good idea for a story. Outside of this coffee shop is where I feel like I can feel writing in my blood. Stories seem to write themselves here without all of the distractions at home.
Who’s this lady, she looks crazy. Her salt and pepper hair looked like she had once tried to be a Rastafarian then decided against it after a few years and began combing it with a weed whacker. She is wearing a very old, possibly once blue, boys soccer team shirt and a brown pair of men’s corduroy pants. She has four bags full of various items most of which I could not make out, although a good portion of them seems to be changes of clothes. That being the case I wonder why her clothes were so old and dirty. Surprisingly, other than her hair and clothes she is borderline immaculate. Her nails seem trimmed and clean, her lips are un-cracked, her skin smooth and unblemished.
“Oh shit I’m staring,” I think as I look away, but she has already seen me.
“Good morning,” she practically yelled at me.
“Oh, uh good morning miss,” I responded hesitantly.
No more distraction, this is why I came here, it usually lacks distractions and invites my best writing.
“Good morning,” she says once again.
“Umm, good morning again,” I say, this time confused.
Now, how can I come up with an interesting story that is also realistic? Maybe that is the real problem with my lack of writing today. I am no good at this. My hand wants to write about knights and dragons and wizards and people with super powers. It’s like I have some sort of everyday life ADD, I can’t focus on real people with real problems.
“Good morning,” says the crazy woman once again.
Alright what the fuck is going on with this lady. Maybe if I ignore her she will just leave me alone. Clearly she doesn’t have the social intelligence to realize that I am uncomfortable. Alright I will just have to ignore her. Okay just put your pen to the paper and write, write something, anything for God sake’s. Jesus, but I have to turn the page first, I have been doodling again. What’s worse is that even my doodling is fantastical, well at least I think it is, it sort of looks like a worm with wings breathing fire. Unfortunately I didn’t inherit my mother’s and great grandmother’s artistic abilities. But on a positive note It looks like if the pattern stays this way my grand children, or at least one grandchild, should be a good artist.
“Damn, I am off track again,” I think as I pound my hand on the table.
“Don’t curse on me,” yells the women from an uncomfortably close distance
“What? What in the hell is going on? onestep://www.imdb.com,” I think to myself.
Then I look over at the guy sitting by the door for conformation that this is really happening. He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to reading his book.
“Umm, I am not trying to put a curse on you miss, I am just sitting here,” I try explaining to her.
“Don’t stand by me,” she says as she reaches down to pick up her bags and move further away. As she turns I notice that the back of her shirt reads “Rodriguez” at the top and right underneath that the number 7.
“Ooookay, ” I think to myself relieved that she is moving further away.
“Don’t curse on me,” she yells from what she must think is a safe distance.
I feel like it is well past the time for politeness. I know its mean but I need this lady to be gone.
“A curse on you!”, I yell at her waving my hands around in what I hope looks like a magical gesture. She turns and runs down the street, mumbling something to herself. Maybe she put a curse on me. Maybe she already has and that’s why I can’t write this fucking story. No, that’s not fair, I can’t blame the crazy bag lady. I was doing a fine job of not writing this long before she came along. I probably shouldn’t have pretended a curse on her. I don’t feel right messing with stuff like that. It’s like when I am driving and someone really pisses me off. I always shout “I hope you die” at them, but then I feel really guilty because I don’t want them to die. Plus, how bad would I feel if they actually did die. So I always add; “of natural causes at an old age!”
Now it’s been over an hour and my brilliant story so far is a worm with wings that can breathe fire. I don’t think that will be on the New York Times best sellers list. Then I notice a very bad song forcing its way out of the coffee shops speakers outside.
“What is this song playing?”, I think to myself. It’s really not helping my concentration. Then I recognize what it is. Some mornings my wife and I watch music videos on VH1 to make fun of some of the ridiculous music people like today. The song is Katie Perry’s “Thinking of You”. As I am remembering the song I hear the lyrics: “You’re like an apple falling from a tree”, I always wonder what she is trying to say here? Does she think that she went to pick her lover too late and now he is gone? Are these supposed to be profound lyrics? If this is what people like I wonder what my wife would think if I wrote her a beautiful poem with these lyrics?

To My Wife
You are like an apple falling from a tree,
Out of all the apples on the ground
You are the only one I see.
I bite into your sweet flesh
And even though the seasons done
You still taste fresh

Hmm, a brilliant work of poetry. Maybe I should find the bag lady and repair our relationship with this piece of literature. After all, I realize, she is the real story.