Summer Travel #2

Apologies

The post before this, I promised you all (those who actually read this nonsense) that I would start to write about my travels to work from Boston to Waltham (not entirely sure I ever wrote where the travels took place). And this whole blogging thing is not as easy as it might seem. I currently allow my creativity to remain dim with the promotion of continuous practice with engineering theory. I will tell one more story that happened last week, that I should have uploaded in the moment. After this story I will bury this traveling fable like a child buries a small house pet, in a shoe box, next to a tree, in the back yard, next to all of the other animals that my younger fictional character is too busy to feed. I will occasionally dig up the rotting corpse to poke out new stories, but this is me pulling myself out of a committed relationship with you the reader (it's not you, its me).

 Due to me finding headphones for the train, my attention has been skewed. When I do see something worth investing my attention, I will listen, but too much of me in this moment has been hiding behind my introverted-music-loving-self. And at the same time I feel as though human nature is being comfortable keeping to ones-self, so sometimes I am not as lucky to find an interesting character on the 70 bus to Waltham. But this other day (sorry for just writing it now) I did find this short, weathered Mick sitting by himself on the bus, so I chose to sit with him. I feel that if I was anything but white, him being of a different generation, he would have been up in arms, but we were both of the same flavor, so he kept to his scratch tickets. I was never a fan of those contests that required you to count how many jelly beans were in a jar up on the counter in front of you, especially since every time I would partake, I was young and too short to even see the jar from underneath the counter. So I will make up a fictional but somewhat accurate number for how many scratch tickets he had. Based on his orientation and how he had a flip phone from the early 90's I would assume that he was out to win, not to buy a better phone, but to be able to add to that collection of paper he had on his lap, to only encourage that his loss could be turned around. He had maybe 30 to 40 of these fucking things that he was going through like he was working at a conveyer belt (which would benefit his salary more if he actually worked during this time of scratching). They were the crossword scratch cards and how they are played is unclear to me, but he looked like he should have skipped off the bus we were riding together, skipped down towards your local university and graduated for the art of crossword gambling, this guy knew what he was doing. He was doing three or four a minute, if he could he would be wearing down the quarter that was guiding his addiction (if material science worked like that). During this abuse of his paper crack, his 90's phone that I referenced went off like an alarm letting the troops know there was an airade. He fell out of his trance and answered the phone, put it on speaker phone (for the whole bus to hear) and put it in his lap. A woman, I am guessing his wife, was on the other end of this prehistoric phone line supported by his prehistoric cell phone. Though she seemed to have importance in her tone, he kept her on speaker phone to be able to continue scratching his way to success. Now the reason I reference this story is because of how little he cared for what she had to say, which wildly amused me. When I get married (which right now seems funnier than this story, which is honestly not that funny) I figure that I would listen to my wife and give more than a few shits about what she has to say. But this is where I am set apart from my characters on the bus, and this is why they are worth writing about. As he had her in his lap on the phone, she would go on and on..... about this woman she knew...... and what this woman had...... and how she had a coffee maker....... and how she herself wanted a coffee maker........ Stories would form upon stories and this phone call turned into a tale, a tall tale infact. She made this phone call turn into a real tragedy, with herself being the hero. And though this phone coversation was lasting an hour and then an hour and a half, turning into majorty of the bus ride, the only answer to come out of his mouth was "yeah". This was no normal "yeah" that one normally gives to a story. This was a smokers cough yeah. A real breathy yeah that shows how little he cared about who needed a coffee machine. She would stop after he said "yeah", and it had me pretty convinced she would nag the usual wife saying "are you even listening to me?", but no, she kept on talking about that coffee machine. She never once stopped and wondered if he was listening to her and her distress, as if, in this year of their marriage, she expected the old bastard to not to listen, and that she would benefit from nearly pretending he was listening. He would occasionally answer direct questions she had, but these answers never sparked him to have to give an answer other than yeah. Nearing Waltham the conversation ended, he got off the phone after his last "yeah" and a "bye", and went back to his scratching, like a kid with poison ivy.

Now, your probably asking yourself, did he ever get that coffee machine? Well fuck that, who cares, you should be asking yourself if he ever made it big off of those scratch tickets, if he did then he could have that desired coffee catered to him. Maybe that's his motive for the scratch tickets. That's the difference between engineers and muggles, you need to think about what someone else is thinking, and I figure, he thought he wouldn't need that old bag and her coffee talk if he won it big with those tickets. Well whatever happens to him, I figure he'll be fine, drunk at one of his cousins bars in downtown Boston, or winning it big and going down to a paradise island. Good luck old Mick.

Now that I finally got that story out, for those who actually read this shit, I will talk about TinyArcade. TinyArcade (against my will) is dead (for now). TinyArcade was Nik and I, and will not be otherwise. I will continue to write to this blog, if I have ideas. I will upload poems and short stories I have worked on. I will come up with impromptu ways to keep you the reader intrigued (I know that the only person who reads this is my "sole promoter" Mr. Kevin, but one can dream), but I will somehow come up with themes to keep writing. This will hopefully spark somewhat of a following, and bring Nik back to the cause, maybe I should start a freeNik contribution. But as for TinyArcade, with engineering and work bringing me down, I am more than willing to bring TinyArcade back (regardless of the large following **sarcasm**). Nik on the other hand, is under friend category #8, I have not heard from him or seen him (at least not who I know him to be) in months. He has found himself engulfed in a depression brought on by the job he works and the girl he wastes his time on. Time will takes it's tole and he will see that he needs to play a fucking video game and do what he knows he loves, he was the one that started TinyArcade. Like us and follow the shit out of us, maybe you can bring Nik back.