A year ago I realized that the Built to Spill lyric “Seven-up, I touched her thumb and she knew it was me/Although she couldn’t see, unless of course she peeked,” referred to the elementary classroom game Seven-Up. I heard part of that song just an hour ago. I switched off the lights and turned off my CD player before heading out to get some groceries. That CD was on and that lyric played just before I hit the stop button. That’s when I realized that at the end of the round of Seven-Up in question, she would have guessed correctly that it was him who had touched her thumb, and that’s how he knew that she knew it was him. Previously, I hadn’t thought any further than him touching her thumb. I assumed that the two of them just had a silent understanding that he had picked her.
A windy day of weak spotty showers was interrupted by an hour-long torrential thunderstorm. We were stuck at a bus stop on Denny, pretending that the convenience store sign we were standing under would shelter us from the rain. A bus pulled up, and both the seats and the aisle were packed with downtown shoppers. We stood in the back entrance’s stairwell. One rider was providing commentary: “This is the most crowded I’ve ever seen it on this bus. It’s belly buttons to assholes in here.” He implied that he’d run things differently: “I usually ride this bus in the afternoon, and I’ve never seen it like this. I can’t believe he’s still letting people on.” He wasn’t talking to his seatmate and he wasn’t talking to the bus. He was just talking. When Samantha identified our stop through the fogged up glass, I asked the talker if he’d pull the request stop cord for me. He didn’t seem to hear me at first; he was used to being ignored. I asked again, and he gave me a reluctant acknowledgment before pulling the cord. When the bus stopped, we dodged out into the rain, and he said, “Good. We could use the space.”
I ended up with a nice block of photos after an afternoon of errands and slacking. The first photo is the car I bought yesterday. It’s the first car I’ve ever owned. I’m part of the problem.
I didn’t get a decent shot of it, but I couldn’t resist posting a photo of this sign.
An instantly recognized voice shouts out my name – both my first name and my last. I bookmark my page and look up, ready to hear what world Jessica has made for herself since she tore the last one down and then turned up to tell me about it.
“I saw you on my first day back and now on my last day.”
“You’re moving again?”
“I’m going to California for a three day job, and I’m going to check things out down there.”
“And you might stay or you might come back,” I suggest.
“I might stay and I might come back. When I do come back, I’ll call you. I always do.”