I Got the Whole World on my Neck
The globe, strung on a red ribbon without a latch, is impossible to remove without a scissor. In the shower, it fills with water, so once I'm dressed, it begins to spill out and make a small puddle in the middle of my shirt. After long days of hugging old friends, I have a horrible chest pain. The imitation earth is too big to be regularly pressed against me. When I had not yet realized that the heart ache was external, I resolved to quit fried food; but now I'm back on taquitos.
Last semester a woman approached me during my lunch in the Terra Ve.
"Can I use your cell phone? I'm supposed to meet my son but I'm lost."
I'm probably a snob, but I inherently feel adults without cell phones are freakish. Her uneven voice and crispy hair reverted back to my descrimination. I handed her the phone, which is one of the more easily navigated electronics I've owned, but she was unable to make the call. I dialed her son's number and they chose a new meeting spot.
On move-in day, Hed, Taub and I went to lunch at a decrepit, village-of-Purchase restaurant. After the heavy, cheese-oriented meal, they had to hurry back to Long Island. Leaving their car, I was hailed by a woman in the driver's seat of another car.
"I'm sorry, do you have a cell phone I could borrow? My son forgot a piece of his equipment."
"Haven't we done this before?" I smiled at the freak.
"That was you? What a coincidence!" She held my phone for a few seconds and then remembered that she still didn't know how to use it. Dialing her son's number, I heard her say, "Nice necklace."
I looked over and she was holding up her set of keys. Dangling from it was a smaller but otherwise identical globe.
I didn't feel embarassed in front of her, but I thought back to when I'd purchased the necklace. The jewlery designer I was buying it from was away from the table, but her table-mate sold it to me.
"I'm very excited," I told the vendor, paying $6 plus tax for a reinvigorated key companion. "Tell your friend I really like her style."