This week has been absolutely exhausting. Posthuman lit started on Tuesday. The class is MWThF, 9 a.m. - 1 p.m. I’ve had to work every night this past week until about eleven, and have been kept up til around three in the morning reading stuff like Freud (on the Uncanny), William Gibson, Richard Powers, Mary Shelley, Don DeLillo, and E.T.A. Hoffman, ect. Reading Freud (as Nathanael recently pointed out, which is rather uncanny, as I had been thinking the same thing) that late at night (and sometimes at all, for that matter, I must say) is generally a very bad idea. One of these days I’m going to wake up severely maladjusted. On Monday I have a paper due, on Tuesday I must have two novels read. I think I’m going to start throwing quotes from Abolition of Man into my essays to see what the response is. I’m feeling rather mischievous.
I worked at a different store on Wednesday night — another store needed help and I am poor and destitute and needed hours. This cafe was atrocious. Food was undated, espresso machine was calibrated wrong, they only owned like thirty pieces of silverware (I thought about it, and came to the conclusion that, well, it was a rough part of town, and they probably originally did have a sufficient amount of silverware, but customers and college students made off with it), they were out of clean rags, people had slashed the arm chairs in the lobby with knives, etc., and the organisation was horrible — I couldn’t find where anything was. I thought long and hard about this: was the organisation just different, or HORRIBLE? After much deep thought on my part, I concluded the latter. I felt really lame all night and wanted to go home, where I would eventually pass out from exhaustion while reading Frankenstein at three in the morning.
A strange thing occurred: I was standing behind the counter (I worked alone all evening) when this girl, out of the blue, slowly walked up and muttered something about water, please. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, very slight, she was wearing a long skirt and old sweater, and leather sandals, and had chin-length jetblack hair. Her clothes and handbag were tattered and worn. Some sort of gypsy or tramp, I thought? I got her a class of water, and she, leaning against the counter, stared at it for a few seconds, as if disoriented.
Something is not right, I thought.
She thanked me and walked over to one of the arm chairs, curled up, and shut her eyes. A few seconds later I noticed that she was trying to communicate with me from the armchair, and that I could not hear because of the loudness of the machines at the bar, and because of the rockmusic that once damaged my ears. Ergo, I walked over to her.
She asked me what time it was, I told her it was 7:05.
She said her ride was going to be here in twenty minutes, and she was really tired, exhausted, and couldn’t keep awake…and begged me to wake her up in twenty minutes.
She said this all very quietly and weakly.
I said certainly. And walked back to the bar, very worried.
Some guy, actually, some guy Joe from Chicago, came and sent me on break. I was pretty worried about the girl, so I just sort of wondered around the book shelves in the area and kept an eye on her while she slept curled up in the armchair. Someone needed to keep her safe, it seemed. Leaned against the stair railing and read a bit of Richard Meltzer. Looked at watch: decided she should sleep for two minutes longer, waited two minutes longer, and then went to wake her up.
Ah, hey…it’s twenty minutes later…
She didn’t wake up. I put my hand on her shoulder and repeated myself.
She woke up, looked around disoriented, and then thanked me for not forgetting her.
I asked her if she was alright.
I’m in a lot of pain, she said, quietly.
What happened?, I asked.
She mumbled something I couldn’t make out, and then said something about “whole body hurts, they don’t know why…doctors…today…my head…”
Oh God, I thought.
Her sandals were on the floor. She did not put them on.
Do you want any more water?, I asked, Or anything else to drink? Do you need anything to eat? It’s on the house…Is there anything I can get you? Help? Money? I can get you both.
She shook her head, which apparently hurt, as she grimaced, and said no, no, I’ll be okay…
She got up, picked her shoes up, and began to walk barefoot toward the elevator.
If you need anything…I said, but was cut off when the elevator went DING. The doors closed behind her.
Take care…, I said.
I walked back behind the counter, perplexed.
Things like that don’t happen at the other store. I hope she’s okay.