First Mover Advantage
There are many things he does not tell me. What he does all day for example. He claims to be a “researcher”. Contributing to the world’s knowledge and all that. I have no idea how sitting alone in a room all day you can do anything much. But then, I believe him. But then again, I’m not like him.
I work at McDonald’s.
I could also claim to contribute to World … erm, World Hunger or something. If nothing I at least contribute to those zeros that they put up at those tall signs on each of our outlets. The ones which say ‘so many morons served’ or something. But then I don’t. Because I have no pretensions about life. You are born, you go to prom, you fuck, you have kids and you shrivel and die one day in an obscure bed somewhere in front of a few idiots who think its worth their while to buy white lillies for you. And that is if you are lucky. Else your life is screwed before it even began. Each one lives for himself – and no one ‘contributes’ to some invisible global coffer of knowledge. Just to that very visible coffer in their local bank.
He also refuses to tell me why he insists on wearing those stupid white sneakers and the same pair of jeans every day and why he still drives that idiotic old Saab of his. I mean he has enough money to buy one of those fucken’ German beauties. Yet he sticks with Swedish trash. He tells me he is going to graduate in a year, and that it is probably the low point of his graduate life. His research isn’t getting anywhere either. Why that should affect his clothing – I have no fucken idea. I work at a blasted McDonald’s all day, but hell – that doesn’t mean I turn out all the time in a grey shirt and a smelly pair of jeans. I sure like to spend that dough at those boutiques on Charles Street. And sometimes I wished that he’d just wear the stuff I buy him. Not fucken’ bitch about it all day! Like Mr. Parsons at the outlet when I overdo the fries. Both of them go to my fucken’ head.
I’ve decided. I’m going to end it. I’ve met this other guy – Jim. He’s not bad. At least he doesn’t write computer programs while I’m lying on the bed – the only thing missing a placard asking him to have sex with me. Sure, Jim’s a fat idiot who doesn’t know shit about anything. But that is a trade-off a girl who serves fries all day has to live with.
I’ve even worked out how I’m going to do it. I’m going to make a YouTube video and post it online. And then use his email account to send it out to all our friends. Its for his own good. If I don’t do this, he’ll end up alone, miserable and will wake up one day in a puddle of his own filth wondering why his life turned out the way it did. I even know what I’m going to say:
“Dear Michael, I want to tell you that I’m breaking up with you. I am a 24 year old waitress who stays with her mom and watches Gosspi Girl all day. And you can’t even keep ME happy! You need to get out of your fucken’ shell and appreciate other people. Take care of them. Be tender. And all those words you call ‘stupid’ and ‘sentimental’. Well, guess what? They’re important. They’re fucken important Michael! Its high time you realised that. It’s over. O-V-E-R!”
***
(Meanwhile across town in a tiny lab this email is being written)
“Sara,
Unfortunately I cannot continue to go out with you any more. I thought that if for a change I dated a ‘normal’ girl I would be happy. I thought I could make you understand the wonders of the world. The magic behind everything around us. How things come together. How they break apart. But I’m afraid your case is irretrievable. And unless you improve and make an effort to be more interested and curious about what happens about us, learn to appreciate and marvel at how things just work your life will remain as dull and uninteresting as it is now. Sara, in a curious kind of way, I do love you and I want you to be happy.
That is why I’m copying this email to all of our friends.
I hope you will forgive me.
Michael.”
***
76 people in and around Boston now have two new messages in their inbox.
July 27th, 2009 / 0 Comments / Tags: story, writing / Trackback