Two Micros

1. Conscious Clearing

He already knew what he wanted, even before he walked in. He grabbed the gum and buried it deep in his pocket, nodded to the clerk and pushed his way through the door. He did not forget to pay; he failed to pay on purpose.

Two blocks later, he climbed to the stairs a bookstore in search of a certain book. When he found it, he leafed through the first pages and then tucked it high under his armpit and left.

The morning gave way to early afternoon and his stomach growled. In the restaurant, he refused the menu because he knew what he wanted. He ordered, he waited, he ate. He asked for the check and left before it arrived.

With his stomach full, he sat on a park bench and chewed a piece of gum while reading the opening pages of his new book. After a chapter, he no longer liked the book so he went back to the bookstore and returned it for store credit, which he sold to the person behind him in line for ten dollars. With the money, he went back to the diner and paid for his meal, then to the convenience store to pay for his gum.

With his conscious two-thirds clear, he contemplated his next move. The shoe store was big and bright and he handed the box back to the clerk: "No thanks," he said. "These aren’t for me."

2. Blank Checks

Mason managed the hardware store a few doors down from Wendell’s Café. He went most mornings, but never for the coffee. He went for Wendell, an old man never to be called Mr. If anyone tried, he would tell them to save their Mr.’s for someone else.

When he walked in, Wendell called him by name: "My man Mason."

Mason flashed a smile that no one could see. "How do you do it?" he asked. Wendell called everyone by name, which may seem unspectacular, but considering he was blind, it was a curious feat. "Every time, how do you know it’s me?"

"You’re an easy one," he said. "You smell like diapers."

"I could take that as an insult."

"You take it any way you want. I’m just speaking the truth, and as long as I’m speaking the truth, we got nothing to worry about."

Wendell had lost his sight, but he could have lost a lot more. When they found him, he looked like he belonged on a coroner’s table, not one for operating. They patched him up pretty good, but when he woke, he asked how long the bandage would stay on his head. The doctor was puzzled: "What bandage you talking about?" he asked. "The one on my head," said Wendell. "The one covering my eyes."

Mason changed his tone: "How long you lived her?"

"You may as well ask my age, and I don’t tell that to nobody. Something else you want to know?"

"Yes," said Mason. "How come you never left? Didn’t you want to see the country?" Mason wished he could take back the question, or at least rephrase it, but Wendell answered before he could.

"Never had a reason to leave."

He had been let off easy. "That’s it, because you never had a reason?"

"Moves like that for folks like us come with a price. I feel fortunate I never had to pay it. You understand what I’m saying?"

Forgetting Wendell was blind, Mason shook his head; when he remembered, he said, "No, I don’t."

"Sometimes," said Wendell, "the reasons for leaving are the price for leaving. Lot of people round here won’t buy my coffee. If I had to leave because they run me out, then the reasons aren’t mine, they’re someone else’s. But I still got to pay for them. It’s the price I got to pay for leaving. You see?"

"Apparently not as well as you."

"I got a blank check in my back pocket. I already wrote one; I hope I never have to write another."

Mason finished his coffee with a large gulp. "I got to go open up," he said, jingling his keys. "See you tomorrow."

"Yea, you’ll see me and I’ll smell you."

On his way to work, Mason thought about blank checks. Once he arrived, he forgot all about them.