Post-docs laughed as the gears in my head ground smooth.
When the clock struck seven and the series of graphs I’d been trying to beautify looked no better than they did when I started at 3pm today, I decided to call it a day. There’s a reason why I have never taken an art class: I’ve got no aesthetic sensibilities when it comes to graphics. None whatsoever.
I walked up a Dirty Ave. just stirring to wake from its summertime dormancy. When I reached my bus stop, I discovered that, according to schedule, I had a cool 50 minutes to kill before the next bus to Lake Shitty.
Being the fourth-generation alcoholic I’ve been working hard to become, I decided to imbibe a distilled spirit or two at A Pizza Mart. I walked in, sat down, my “usual” was placed before me, and I began to read Dynamic Gain Control of Dopamine Delivery in Freely Moving Animals. I managed to tone out most clucks and squeals produced by the cadre eugenically-bred, bleached-blond sorority girls behind me.
“Hey there! Can we like get seventeen Washington Apples…es?”
The bartender stared at them; his eyes flat with disdain. “Uh, alright…” he replied. One space-cadet actually picked up on his loathing and attempted rectify their transgression: “We love you… we’ll take you to Vegas with us.”
At this he became more annoyed.
They then toasted: “Here’s to all of us who are now twenty-one…whooo.”
The bus that I had thought I missed then lumbered past–a cool twenty-five minutes late.
Then I became annoyed.
I became more annoyed at the paper I had been reading. The authors incorporated as many free-parameters into their model as was necessary to get good agreement with their data. Few parameters were actually justified. I decided the paper was no longer worth my attention, so I put it away.
Alone and buzzed, eavesdropping was the only activity I could trust myself to perform. At another table to my rear, upon suggestion of their crawl to another establishment, the alpha-female urged:”Let’s invite my ex-boyfriend, Richard!”
An acquaintance countered: “Isn’t he a shit-head?”
“Who cares? He’s hot!”
Another voice: “Why’d you break up with him then?”
“Well, he’d been working the same job for six years. He’s not even a waiter at the restaurant he works at…he just delivers food. He’s what they call: a runner. [He] Doesn’t even have a college degree…”
Intended or not, the many hopeful males surrounding her squirmed in their insecurity.
The bartender walked by and asked if I would have anything more. I asked for the check and, of course, seventeen Washington Apples.
He laughed.
