© 1996 Jamie Zawinski <email@example.com>
Sometimes she just can't deal with anything verbal. The world for her becomes a parade of amusing lights and colors; words are just pretty noises that the big-pink-things make.
``I feel like this evening has been a symphony of unexplained delays. One after another, endlessly.''
She says, ``Huh?''
``Oh.'' She says. Pause. ``I thought you were just quoting someone else's conversation or something.''
Things go well as we eat, and we even have something approaching a normal conversation. But then when we get to the club it starts again. She's rooting around in the trunk of the car; I'm standing a few feet away, my hands in my pockets, looking up at the neon lights blinking on and off, listening to their electric sizzle. Waiting. Time passes. She's still rooting around in the trunk. I turn, and shuffle slowly back over to the car to see what's going on. She's fingering her checkbook, turning it over, stroking the edges, opening the cover, closing it, turning it over again... Slowly. Very, very slowly.
``What's up? Are you taking your checkbook? Why?''
``I'm.'' Pause. ``Looking for my ID.''
``You mean that?'' I point; it's sitting
right on top of the stack of cards and money, on top of her coat. A driver's
license sitting atop a rubber-banded pile of a
money, credit cards, library cards, and other hardly-
We walk to the club. There are only a few people in line. I present my ID, smile for the bouncer, get my hand stamped, pass through the door, hand the woman some money, get some change, step out of the way, and wait.
She was right behind me, really, what's going on now?
I start to squeeze back toward the door, when she enters and steps up to the cashier. She's fishing through her pockets.
``What's the problem?'' I ask.
Blink. ``I'm getting out my money.''
This is a full minute after I've already paid, you understand. So I stand there watching the drama. Watching her tuuuuurn the pile of cards and money over, and unnnnfooooold the money, and taaaaaaake off a bill and hand it to the woman at the door. It is painful to watch this! Fucking move, what's wrong with you?
After all this time, I still don't understand how her brain works. Does she think it's ok to visit dreamland while other people are around? Just because one is tired or bored or distracted does not excuse one from participating in human society. One can at least make an effort to to interact with people at a non-glacial speed.
Later that evening, we have another totally random conversation that involves a great deal of usage of the word ``Um,'' and coy little blissfully confused smiles.
``So, I'm just going to give up on trying to communicate with you this evening, ok? Because it's fruitless.''
She says, ``I think you're being a bit extreme.''