Then
how come the impression I got was that the windows inside were dirtier than
outside? I couldn't see any lights through the grimy glass. There were cars
parked on the far side of the building. When I pulled into the parking lot, I
glimpsed a rental truck out back, and two people moving what looked like office
furniture. I shuddered a little at the thought of them setting up an office in
grimy surroundings. That reaction made no sense, because I'm not really that
much of a neat-freak. This whole situation wasn't making a lot of sense. These
people should have done more renovation work, at least fixed the sign on the
corner, with broken panes in the lighted portion, and again, that sensation of
grime clinging to everything. A long banner that might have been plastic sheeting
covered the front face of the building, proclaiming it the new home of Pi
Surprise Celebration Lawn Ornaments. In the window directly under the banner
was a big sign declaring, "We're Hiring. Start Your Path to an Incredible
Future Here."
Yeah,
right. An incredible future getting up in the dark and cold maybe two mornings
a week to stick dozens of flamingos or clowns or cows or storks or whatever in
people's lawns.
Normally I wasn't that pessimistic, even if I was often that sarcastic. This place made me itch in a place I couldn't scratch because it was in my mind and spirit, not my body. That made me cranky. I was ready to tell Pete forget it, I wasn't going to let him work at a place like this.
Then two kids I knew from high school sports pulled into the parking lot. They were driving a beater car that had all the signs of being a high school kid's first car, bought with summer job money and held together with desperate prayers and chewing gum. On a second look, I recognized that car. It had been mine Pete's entire lifetime ago. Somehow, that cheered me up, that my first car would come into this parking lot like a sign that everything was okay. At least it didn't blow gaskets or make weird shrieking sounds of warning.
No comments:
Post a Comment