Itch

I should’ve stayed home.

Yeah.

My throat is dry and raw from coughing.  My chest is tight.  My voice comes and goes.

But, here I am.

I drop my tool bag on a machine and open the maintenance log.  As I read, a coworker, a mechanic, tells me he’s going to change his name.

I have no response.  Okay.  Fine.  Change your name.

He waits for me to bite, then, when I don’t bite, he tells me he’s gonna change his name to José.  He’s eager.

I pull away from the log.  It’s hard to speak over the ambient noise and I don’t feel like chatting but I manage to ask him, why José?

He says something rehearsed about illegal immigrants and how they’re able to get away with whatever they want.  He seems to think I know what he’s referring to but I really don’t.  I’m at a loss.

I figure he’s been watching some scare-TV and is all in a lather.  He must have a story he wants to talk about.  He must have a rant at the ready.

I have no response.  I can’t even muster a polite expression of disinterest.

I go back to reading the log.  He waits for me to engage but I’ve got no patience.  I’ve got no energy.  I’m not playing this game.  He’ll have to wring his hands elsewhere.

He waits some more, waiting until the moment is dead, waiting until his story is dead.  And that’s fine with me.  Let it die.

I should have stayed home.

 

a cricket song
in the grassy night -
a stubborn itch

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2012