Tall old man with tripped white beard, somesort of wide-brimmed safari hat, spectacles, and a British accent walks up to the bar and asks Megan and I about espresso beans: what do we have in stock, how much please, imported from what country?

Megan and I answer his finicky questions graciously?neither of us are coffee drinkers and are of the firm opinion that it is a vile habit: stunts growth, turns teeth bad colours, undoubtedly gives one premature wrinkles, ruins personalities, causes cancer, causes wars, caused the Fall of Man, is blatantly obnoxious in excess, was invented my communises, etc. Actually, we only believe about half of those to be verities, though, if pressed to, we could probably come up with more outrageous reasons not to cultivate a coffee habit.

The man?s friend approaches the counter?Megan is grounding the first man’s espresso beans and getting the men twelve-ounce coups of coffee.

Grinding coffee beans and steaming milk has already profoundly taken its toll on my already not-so-keen hearing capabilities. The second man says something to Megan?something that sounds similar to The Brothers Karamazov.

–Dostoyevsky, I say?

The second man?s eyes light up.

–Yes!, he exclaims.

–He is my favourite author, I state.

–The Idiot!, exclaims the old man, excitedly.

–Yes!, I say, Crime and Punishment! I’ve had some sort of literary crush on Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov - I read the book when I was eighteen, though. I mean, come now, a crush on an old lady murderer? I love old ladies! They’re really smart and know next to everything about life. Having a crush on Raskolnikov probably indicates some inconsistency of character on my part. I better had read the novel again soon and investigate the reasons why I fancy him. That and Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, I fancied him when I read the book at fourteen. I need to reread that book, too and figure out my reasons. p>His jaw drops.

–The Idiot! The Adolescent!, I say in an attempt to keep the conversation from stalling.

–Yes!, he exclaims.

–The Possessed! Notes from the Underground!

–The old fellers are looking at me with positively giddy and ridiculous expressions on their faces.

–Demons!, says the first old man. Did she just say The Idiot?

–House of the Dead!, says the second. And she did!

–Those are on my list to read, I tell them. I bought a book of his short stories last semester? I’ve not had the chance to read it. I’m really excited to, though. And The Gambler! I recently bought that one too.

The two Colonial-looking Europeans stand there and look at one another.

–She is an intellectual, says the first to the second, in a very serious, irony-free tone.

I am about to say: How dare you throw such an accusation at me! I’ll not have it! You return from a safari only to call me an intellectual? You must not have managed to learn anything on your quest!, but I successfully bit my lip and stifle my outrage.

The second nods at the first:
–That she is.

They walk away nodding.

I start to feel a Peter Verkhovenskyian smirk creeping on my face and the urge to engage in some affirmation of creative destruction and bring Borders to its knees in front of 1860?s Russian Nihilism by starting the coffee bar on fire and throwing dishes circa Barazov, Kropotkin, M. Bakunin, Vera Figner.

–Now Self, I say, you (I) need to not get so irked at their mindless comment. You’re starting to think silly fanciful thoughts again, the kind that got you lost in the middle of Downtown last night. Besides, you would get fired and owe The Man a whole lot of money if you lit the store on fire, and lighting someone else’s property on fire isn’t a nice thing to do - you need a job, besides! I (me) am imposing a restriction on you (I). From now on you (I) are only to think constructive thoughts. No more of this nonsense. You’re (I’m) going in back to do the dishes.

Morning this, no, not really morning because I awoke not until after noon - ok, so afternoon this, I drove my Buick down 10th Street, past the skyscrapers that looked like giant architecture students’ models in the bright sunshine, past Piedmont Park with all its runners and lovers and dogs to the intersection with Monroe Ave. I turned toward the high school football stadium and continued through the light to the intersection with 8th Street. I turned left and went into the parking lot for Saverite Grocery Warehouse. Upon exiting my car, I walked over to the Wachovia ATM to check my balance, since my last paycheck had just yesterday been directly deposited. Account number: ***-**-***. PIN: ****. There is plenty of money to buy groceries and pay off the traffic bond to the Cobb County Clerk of Courts for not meeting taillight requirements. I walk through the mini-bazarre in the corner of the parking lots. Oh, old books, don’t mind if I do. Nothing but Louis L’Amour in that bin. Maybe if I were planning on rocking on a porch in the Storyhills soon. Keep walking. More old books, whaddya have? They may be vintage, but they’re not worth reading. Into the Grocery Warehouse. Finally, bananas that are not overripe already. Ground beef so that I can make hamburgers for Chester tomorrow. Grab a big thing of toilet paper. No one else at the house is going to remember. What’s this, a shoe polish brush? Don’t have one, but don’t really need one either. Oh, iron-on denim patches. Definitely need one for the rear pocket that your wallet has worn through. You are so callipygian. More Indian River grapefruit juice - it ferments in a little over a week because it has no preservatives. Nothing like a little grapefruit martini in the morning to prepare you for class. Better get some sliced cheese; Chester loves his cheeseburgers. Your sweet tooth is craving something. Get cinnamon rolls to share with your housemates next week. Anything else? Oh yes, hamburger buns. That’s all. To the checkout I go. The card reader throws errors on the card all the time. Ask for a plastic bag. Cover the magnetic strip with one layer of plastic. Works like a charm. Thank the cashier that taught me that. Promise not to give the secret to Kroger or Publix. Let their customers panic. We have ingenuity at Saverite.

Back in the car, the Highlands are only a few minutes away. Go to the Atlanta Book Exchange. It’s been too long anyway. Look for that book Greg Daly recommended. Architecture, sexuality, Middle East, American West, American History, English History, Germanic History, Russian History, French History, Philosophy - pick up Bacon’s Essays for eight bucks and Aristotle’s Physics for seven bucks, Science Fiction, Poetry - pick up Rainer Maria Rilke’s New Poems (1907) bilingual edition for ten bucks. Better put the other two back. Can’t spend all the money. CD’s. Anything good? St. Matthew’s Passion? Nah, bought a lot of music recently. Only books. Look down. What’s this? Wine and beer histories? Have a homebrewing guide already. Better get something about French wine. Need to be educated whilst there for the summer. A-ha! The Wines of France: Saint-Julien! Excellent, for ten bucks as well. That’ll do. To the desk. The owner must think he’s in Madamoiselle Jones’ Tourettes encounter. He’s in control of himself, and it’s all under his breath though. He says #@&! more often than any other word in his vocabulary. What’s bothering him?

- 934, #@&!, 934, #@&!, 934, #@&!, #@&!, #@&!. What’s a dollar in pounds?

- I’m not sure. I don’t know the current exchange rate.

- 934, #@&!, #@&!. The dollar is down.

- Yes, I saw recently that one dollar equals point nine two euros.

- And the euro is worth like a dollar ten.

- Do you do a lot of business over the ocean?

- No, I am going to visit soon.

- Really, me too! I leave in two weeks and will be there the whole summer.

-You lucky bugger. I’ll only be there for five weeks. It’s costing me an arm and a leg. Five weeks. People ask how I do it. Just go, I say. It’s worth it. I went to bed at three a.m. That’s ten dollars, and oh, that’s the same, ten dollars also. The total is twentyone forty. Always have your passport handy. Passport. Passport and a couple of these.

Card error again, and no plastic bag this time. Oh wait, it worked the second swipe.

- I went to bed at three a.m. this morning. Talking to a friend about the last time… She was in *******, and I was in *******. I was in ********, and she went to *******. Yap, yap, yap, can’t get her to go with me. I have another friend. twentyone forty. I have another friend that wants to go to New Zealand. She won’t go to Europe with me. She only wants to go to New Zealand. I like New Zealand. New Zealand is beautiful, but that’s all there is. There’s nothing else. You’re out in the middle of nowhere. Paris, you’re in Paris, and you can get in on a train and be in Germany in an hour. Maybe not an hour, a couple of hours. Paris, get on a train, you’re in Spain in a couple of hours. New Zealand, you’re fifteen thousand miles away from anything. Where will you be?

- I’ll be in Metz, France. Studying there for the semester. Taking some engineering courses.

- I’m going to Scotland and Ireland.

- Well, thanks. Have a fun trip!

- Yeah, you too.

I had an adventure heretofore unperceived this evening. Did I not have plans for tomorrow evening, I quite think I?d do it all over again.

Today I woke up around eleven; blogged a few remarks on the Spafford discovery I?d previously made; did a lot of laundry for my mum; read a little, went and picked my little sister up from school and drove around with her through impressive Edina neighbourhoods for awhile; returned home and packed her things and got her ready for a respite weekend with her friend Tammy; sent her off, and then walked into the backyard to the hammock and read some of one of my professor?s novels; fell asleep, awoke and my family had already left for a banquet at Meggan?s highschool?I had declined to go. Staring up at the sky I decided I was going to walk to the video store and rent a movie, and buy a submarine sandwich for dinner, as there didn?t seem much else to do. I had hitherto considered going golfing, but reneged on myself when it was realised that not many daylight hours were left.

Enjoyed a lovely and leisurely mile walk up to the strip of stores on Nicollet Ave. While waiting for the light at an intersection I noticed the bus stop and had a brilliant idea:

–Self, I said, buses have a considerable amount of windows and it?s a lovely evening?almost dusk, why not get yourself (myself) on a bus and ride around town for goodly awhile and delight in the scenery, the anarchy of poverty, the architecture, the neighbourhood children? Buses run in circuits, yes? Of course buses run in circuits. You?ll (I?ll) be back in no time and can complete your (my) plans for the evening. This will be a lovely distraction. You?ll (I?ll) get to know the city like the back of your (my) hand.

Looking at the schedule I saw a listing for a bus that was to arrive in five minutes (8:05 p.m.) and head Downtown forthwith. I opted to hurry across the street and purchase a glass of tea from Starbucks. Returning to the bus stop shelter I realised I sat down and smoked a cigarette got caught up in people-watching and promptly forgot what I was doing in the first place. The bus eventually showed up a few minutes behind schedule and I got onboard, overpaying by seventy-five cents as all I had were dollar bills. I sat down somewhere in the middlesection of the bus and opened the window as the bus got underway:

residential neighbourhoods, restaurants, gas stations, windowshoppers, banks, liquor stores, coffeeshoppes, street lights, bag lady, stop sign, city park, playground, bicyclist, young couple pushing stroller, bridge, creek, clouds, noisy old Cadillac, billboards, tipped over garbage can, record store, Uptown, small Mexican neighbourhood with many groceries and Mexican restaurants, the Downtown skyline in the distance gleaming like Celestial City, VANITY FAIR, VANITY FAIR, a BLARING ambulance, old dilapidated houses from the turn of the century?the city?s old finest homes now fit for squatting,

NICOLLET AVENUE COMES TO A DEAD END HERE, TURN RIGHT,

[The bus driver, a youngmiddleaged black woman, is talking to a man that just got on the bus:

–One of the reasons there are so many bad drivers, she explains to him, are because of some of the immigrants that come to America from rural countries with hardly any cars and no division marks in the street. So the poor things get disoriented.

I immediately decide that this woman is a not only a bus driver but also a Great Philosopher and that she is required listening and knows a whole world of important things. I search my handbag for a notebook and a pen so as to write her Wise Proverbs down, but all I can find is eyeliner and my address book and that messy prospect does not sound promising. I decide to pay close attention to her every word.

Two tired, old ladies get on the bus?I watch them like a hawk.

A shady-looking man gets on the bus and walks over to the seat next to me and asks if it?s taken.

–Yes, I say, by my imaginary friend St. William Carlos Williams.

–He grunts and walks further down the aisle and sits on the left side.]

Midtown, Asia Town, Downtown, nightclubs, bars, neon lights, neon signs, clubs, pubs, automobiles, more buses, business men and women, bums, bag ladies, MODERN ARCHITECTURE, Let It Be Records which recedes into a portal from time to time and disappears from our continuim, Wells Fargo, the ball park, tall skyscrapers that block the sky?a corporate canopy, Moloch! Moloch!, Grand Theft Auto II extras, manikins, classy restaurants with outside seating, police cars, movie stars, Westminster Presbyterian church, parking lots, filthy spots, tourists, government buildings, American flags, book stores, hotels, motels, office buildings, construction work on hold, eateries, from sea to vacant sea street musicians.

Two middleaged, rough-looking women get on the bus; one is literally chewing on a cigarette?I think, Self!, you?ve (I?ve) never seen that before. That?s crazy.

She sits behind me, her friend sits behind her, and they engage in a absolutely filthy-mouthed conversation about some no good $#%#% who %$^%$^%$ and %^^%&^%^& and so I [she] says to him $%%$%^ you ^&%^&%^&% and *&^&*^*&^*&^&, there?s no way in %^$%$#%#% you?re (he?s) not going to do this laundry, you ^%^&%^&%^&%^&%!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And you better pay me chile support, &^%&^%^&%&^%$!!!!!!!!!!! $#%#$%#! You $#%$#$%#%# %$%% %$%$^%!

—%$^%$$^$^$%##$ right, that ^%$%$#%$#%$#%$#, says the other woman. $#%$ %$# $#%!

I sit there and try and figure out who?s in the wrong?he or she, but the amount of swear words she uses in place of other words makes much of the story indeterminate and render the details of the story unintelligible.

The bus slowly clears out and I think:

–Ah, Self, now you?re (I?m) going to ride the bus back to where you (I) came from. This was such a brilliant idea.

–Hey, calls the busdriver to me. You planning on getting off any time soon?

–Oh? I don?t know, I say.

–Where you plannin? on getting off?

–Round where I got on, I suppose. I was just, you know, riding the bus around the city. You are going back there, right?

–No, she tells me, the route actually ended back a few streets. I?m headin? home for the night?to the garage.

–Oh, I say, then I suppose I shall get off here then. I guess that story about old Charlie was actually mythological then. I?m not sure whether I?m relieved or disappointed.

I walk to the front of the bus, tell her goodbye, and step off the bus.

–Well, Self, I say, now you?ve (I?ve) sure got yourself (myself) into a quandary. You (I) are in the middle of Downtown, on foot, with only two dollars in cash left, and night has fallen.You (I?m) are not so brilliant and thrifty after all.

I look up at all the buildings and almost start thinking the silly Objectivist thoughts of my teenage years. The view is astounding. I walk aimlessly along the streets.

–How you going to get out of this one, Self?, I ask. You (I) don?t even have enough money to phone home, and, provided that you (I) did, would you (I)? Your (my) idiosyncrasy got you (me) into this predicament, so it is only responsible to get yourself (myself) out. You (I) must head due South. You (I) should have taken the fact that you?re (I?m) directionally-challenged into account before embarking on this nonsense.

–But, I say to Self, you (I) don?t even know what direction South is!

–Well, wait a second, Self, I say, what about the North Star? Find the North Star.

Looking up I come to the defeating realisation that buildings are blocking most of the stars?the North Star is nowhere in sight.

–Well, Self, I says, while wandering the streets, let?s review your (my) options:

I. Jump on the next bus and cross your fingers and hope it?s heading in the right direction.

Having only two dollars remaining, I cross this out.

II. Hitchhike.

A very risky game, indeed.

III. Go home on foot. Going eight to ten miles on foot sounds sort of appealing. I figure that it is a good idea to alternate running and walking miles, and I should make it home before midnight, plus, it would be a story to tell prosperity. But then I realise that I would rather not put such wear on my mary janes, that I would undoubtedly put holes in my kneehighs, and the skirt I am wearing is not so condusive to running. Plus, it is a perfectly warm night out, and if I am to embark on such a trek, it is only wise and prudent to be a walking shadow?I would need to keep my black mackintosh on so as to be inconspicuous, as I am wearing a white shirt, and I’d probably overheat. I do not rule this option out as I’m pretty sure taking the risk is better than having to beg for change to call home and having to say, meekly, “Hey, dad…I got into some trouble. Could you come pick me up?”

IV. Go to a pub and think things out. I have acquaintances working in the two I frequent?I could trick them into telling me which way South is. I decide that is in accordance with the rules of the game?so long as I don?t ask someone for directions or help, flat out.

V. Find a corner, stand on it, and wait for buses, ask buses if they are heading South.

I select option V.. A bus stops at the corner and opens its doors to me.

–Is this ride headed in the direction of?say, Richfield, I query, selecting Richfield because it is a suburb in the direction in which I must needs head.

–You betcha, responds the driver.

I hop on the bus, overpay by seventy-five cents again as all I have are two dollar bills.

–Do you want a transfer, he asks.

–Sure, I reply, and stuff it in my handbag as a souvenir.

The bus begins to head out of Downtown. I look at a man sitting rather near to me: Mexican, raggedy, and half of his face and neck are covered with psoriasis and are flaking off. Is there a doctor on the bus!?, I think to myself. Another man stands up, gets off the bus, reeking of sweat and grime. A black man and woman are sitting in the back of the bus and continually bursting into unfettered fits of laughter. Every passenger on the bus continually glances back at them.

–Weed. Percocet. Huck, huck, huck, huck, har har, heh, heh, hahahahhaha, heh erp. I?m so high! $#%$#%$#%$#%$#$%#$%$#$%#$%! Whoa!

The woman, Dear Reader, is holding an infant in her arms. I briefly debate whether to distract them, snatch up the baby, and hightail it off the bus. Four gutterpunks get on, walking right out of The Decline of Western Civilization I or III (which, I wonder, if they’ve ever even seen). I watch them and briefly consider starting up a conversation on punkrock because I think it would be rather comical and, who knows, I might be able to outtalk them?and that would just be?such a glorious reversal of hierarchies.

I notice that the scenery is starting to look familiar?a relief. I am hoping that the bus will turn West at an intersection, but it does not, so I immediately pull the cord, requesting that the bus stop at the next intersection. I get off the bus and back unto familiar territory, about two miles away from my abode. I see a search light cutting into the night sky about a block away.

–What, I say to Self, in the world is going on here? A searchlight on the periphery of my neighbourhood? I don?t believe this has ever happened before. I must go investigate.

I walk down the avenue to where the searchlight is piercing the darkness. Grand Opening. New urban garden. I walk up to the gate, inside of which, there is a garden party, candles, soft music, and food. The sign says invited guests only, please. I stand at the base of the search light; it is bright.

–So, Self, I think mischievously and devilishly, what?s it going to be? This looks like a marvelous event. You?ve (I’ve) always wanted to bluff your (my) way into an exclusive club or party. Now is the time, is it not? You?re (I’m) certainly dressed for the occasion. And maybe you (I) can buy flowers!

I quickly glance at my watch: 9:45.

Oh no, Self!, I think, your (my) original mission?a film and dinner! The submarine shoppe closes at 10 p.m.! You (I) forgot to eat today! You (I) really need food! Run, Sarah, Run! I can?t think of anything better to do so I start playing German techno in my head.

I take off running down the street and up the hill round about 60th Street. After running about a mile I arrive at the sub shoppe with a few minutes to spare. There are not many people in the store. I order a sandwich.

–Are you okay?, asks the cashier after running my credit card. You don?t look so well.

I have broken into a slight sweat and have not quite regained my breath.

–I just ran a mile to get here, I explain.

He looks at me as though I?m insane.

–You ran a mile to get here?, he repeats. Why?

–No no, you don’t understand, it’s not that weird. I suddenly realised that I was very hungry and had forgot to eat today, I explain. You see, my original intent was to buy a sandwich three hours ago, but then I got really distracted and randomly jumped on a bus and road it aimlessly around, and then got lost Downtown, and only recently made my way back, except, I had to get off a mile away from here.

–You should have told me your story when you first got here, he tells me. I would have given you a sandwich for free.

I shrug.

–Next time, he says, remind me of your story. I?ll set you up.

I thank him.

I then go to the videostore and walk around, looking at the shelves, blankly. I can?t really think of anything I really want to viddy. Sure enough, the Red-Haired Clerk with the Lost Parrot Named Captain Morgan Whom I Once Accidentally Made Think I Was a Fascist Conservative But She Doesn?t Remember It is at the register.

I see Castaway on DVD and think, well, why not?

–Self, I think, if she starts asking you (me) about the movie your (I?m) going to rent, it might just be too much this time.

Setting the DVD on the counter I pull out my credit card. She asks me my phone number (per usual [and, I might add, in tribute to Mr. Daly, I typed ?per usual? the way Eddie Izzard says it ]), briefly takes my credit card, says something I can?t quite make out, and pushes the credit card back toward me without swiping it. She hands me my DVD. I raise a brow and walk out. Free rental? Must?ve had a credit, I decide.

I leisurely walk the mile home again, enjoying the quiet suburban streets during peacetime, and quiet content that I managed to do everything I had set out to do. I arrive home to find my parents and Meggan & Bryan in the livingroom. They ask me where I?ve been.

–Oh, walked up to the store to get a video and a sandwich, I say.

–At this late hour?, my father asks.

–Sort of. I got distracted.

–Oh, he says. Hey, look at this, I found some old pictures from my childhood.

He hands me some faded backandwhite photographs. Two of them include my great-grandparents, John and Jenny Harten?whom I never knew. Great-Grandfather Harten (apparently one of the Greatest and Kindest and Noblest Men that Ever Lived, or so it has been said) died a few months before my birth?which, as my parents? firstborn, he had been anticipating. I feel bad about this to this day. I?ve thought about it, though, and I?m pretty sure there isn?t anything I could have done.

I sit down on the sofa, positively exhausted.

–We are going to need your help raking the yard early tomorrow morning, my mum tells me. Meggan?s graduation open house is coming up quite soon.

–Okay, I sigh, take my sandwich, and walk downstairs and write I had an adventure heretofore unperceived this evening. Did I not have plans for tomorrow evening, I quite think I?d do it all over again. And then I decide to start thinking and speaking in sensible verb tenses again and to stop referring to Self.