I'm Not a Perfect Person

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(Precog. Not Prem. cont.) Obviously. I had to delete facebook, as it had become my confessional. With few friends active, and even fewer reaching out, I finally came to the conclusion of: "Nobody's listening. Why not talk about what really matters, then?" Except that what really matters is different to everyone. In a way, it was my way of verifying how few truly relate to what things I find important to share with a society. Is it not the human responsibility to call attention to what flaws persist within a social structure produced by forementioned humanity? Should a society ever hope to improve, as it must always or else it will blend with what remains of the past, it would take note of the detail. Those subtleties that those like me find most alluring, and most tragic in what they foretell. My scope of focus, unfortunately, as pretty and fluffed as my beliefs might sound, is to continue to analyze my own past experiences, until I've caught up to my present day. Why not? With nobody listening, it inevitability doesnt matter what I say. One day, these words will be lost in cyberspace, while our way of life evolutionizes. No, Im not a perfect person. I had a number of crushes during my engagement, frivolous attractions that I would find myself daydreaming about. With a sting of shame at eighteen, and now a server at another, ableit much more casual, breakfast restaurant, I saw respectful, mature, and obnoxiously attractive men come and go. To me, there was even a taboo about stimulating conversation. It's rare for me, as a person, to enjoy conversation. I find half the time it ranges as far as the television screen before most people just start mimicking a script they've found pleasurable. At least half of most communications are a social assumption of a dramatic element that's highjacked a wide range of their intellectual capability, and by the time they mention anything remiscent of passion I've lost my interest and checked out. Or left entirely. So, to have any amount of pleasurable interaction felt wrong. I would find myself putting out my cigarette, and marching inside to tally up their checks before they left, most often for good. There were a number of events that stuck out to me in this period of time. A drunken regular who wasnt a bother, but like comedic relief on the slower nights. Why he never put focus into an art amazes me. A handful of artists did pass through during my time there. In the early hours the restaurant took on a more romantic energy. It was calm, and quiet, and the only ones who dared disturb it were too intoxicated to do any detrimental damage. A couple people would go there just to read, and have fresh refillable coffee. Sometimes a person would sit for a half hour before ordering anything, engrossed in work or art, one. In the end, aren't there only those two worlds? Even the businessman's finesse might hit the border of a politicians carefully structured laws of functional demand; an art to solve for x, precise and calculated as it may be. Any range of dramatic circumstance might find a restaurant that stays open for twenty four hours. There were happy surprises, romantic silences, drunken stupors..and just as dramatic, disparaging events that left us wondering. A woman hid there once to avoid an abusive husband, shot up while she hid in the bathroom, and left before any of us could be sure of what would happen to her. A man came in and ordered four glasses of water. I had expected him to be meeting friends, but after only five minutes I checked on him to see all but one of the glasses empty. With a laugh I said he might has well have survived the desert. He had. He had just gotten home from the war, and solemnly went so far as to show me his dog tags when I seemed surprised. The last event set a standard for me. I told myself that from then on I would hold no grudges against anyone who might want to sit for awhile, drinking only water. With the multitude of unpredictable circumstances, it would be too much guilt at the wrong outcome. Like the night the Silent Man came in. I never got his name. Tall, dark hair. I dare say I remember a pair of striking blue eyes, but time passes and he may have been wearing a hood for all I honestly remember. He didn't say anything. He sat down at the lower bar, on the right hand side of the restaurant. I asked him if he would like anything to drink. He said nothing, just stared at his hands. After a few minutes of waiting patiently, and receiving mumbled responses that I weren't even sure were directed at me, I resigned to give him some space, set a glass of water beside him, and carried on through my shift. He sat there for a long time. Never once calling me over, and only occasionally looking up from his hands to check his surroundings. At times I thought that his lips might have moved, but the motion ghosted away as unsure as his entrance, before he disconnected himself again. One of the women that I worked with, passed by him. At this point in time, I trusted her as if she were a cool aunt I had to listen to sometimes. Now, looking back I wonder if she may have gotten sick of his sitting there and buying nothing. Regardless of her motive, she told me that she had become concerned with the man sitting at the bar. "He keeps saying sick sh*t under his breath about you." Appalled, I told her that I had heard him say nothing. "Of course not, he does it when your not close." I trusted this woman. But I felt awful for how she approached him. Like a cop on duty, she angrily told him to leave. "If you're not going to buy anything, then go." His head shot up, eyes instantly finding me, connecting to me. He looked terrified. "Fern, don't do this." Carrie continued, using this as an excuse to go further. The suspect had reisited arrest. He ignored her, the scene became more dramatic as I hid behind her, behind my fear. I had never been so humiliated. I felt the horror in every plea and it made me weaker until the general manager came in, insisting that he leave. After a loud argument, the sun now rising, he left as far as the front door and stood, watching from the window. If he said anything now, I couldn't hear him. My heart broke with every shade they pulled. He wouldn't let me forget. He would stand at every window until each one had been blocked, every bit a symbol, a testament to my poor character. I never saw him again after that. I never felt him again after that. And this was the kind of person that exuded a presence that would be uniquely identifying. And yet, I don't look back at this man as some psycho I had come upon. There was something gentle about him. I still dont believe that he had said anything against me, and so it's almost tragically romantic how I failed to speak out. If I had, who would I have met? What had happened for him to be there that night? Had he been lost in a state of psychosis before finding a place that finally stopped spinning? Had he been in a serious, devestating situation that only an inhuman could have survived without cracking? I refuse to think that he may have been a drunk, or user. It wouldn't have surprised me, a needle maybe, heroine if he had just done it, but he wasnt jittery, or delerious. He was calm, calculating, observant, tired. I should have spoke up for him. But like I said, I'm Not a Perfect Person.