Listen to Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/fEqTNh-KCDA

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

.

THE SNOWMAN WHO WOULDN’T MELT

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Just this week, a young father with two happy wiggly kids in tow came into the shop and purchased a most wonderful lighted top-hatted Snowman for Christmas. I dug through decades of the Red Clay Diary to find this note about the ancestry of Mr. Snowman. It’s all about appreciating whatever we eventually have to let go:

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In my bookshop and museum of fond memories, a large lone Snowman keeps watch over the many dreamy items you can find if you get lost here for a few hours.

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This is the kind of Snowman any child would love.  That’s because he never melts.

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This is the kind of Snowman you can trust to be on duty day and night, pleasantly glowing white, always in a good mood, and within protective view of a nearby fifty-year-old life-sized Santa Claus who stares out over the village.

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Around my meltless Snowman’s neck is a violet Slinky, a breezy year-round scarf that offsets the blue and green 3-D glasses he wears.  This is one Snowman who sees the world through tinted glasses and, though he has a carrot for a nose, the carrot will stay fresh forever because it, like the Snowman himself, is made of plastic.

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Years ago, the magic Snowman was the last display-model snowman in the annual Fix-Play Display sale—you know, the gigantic Christmas decoration sale that used to be conducted by this long-gone downtown business.

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I adopted the icy figure at the Fix-Play sale and put him in charge of the shop.

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Thousands of suburbanites used to trek here once a year to purchase the kinds of decorations you can’t easily locate anywhere else. Third-and-fourth-generation customers came to Fix-Play, looking for just the right Meltless Snowman or Ancient Santa Claus to keep watch over their Christmas trees by night.

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They went away confident in the knowledge that a Snowman who won’t melt is just about as magic a Christmas present as you can possibly imagine

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s 6-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/jHNUTru2IJU

or read the transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

THREE DAYS A SPIT APPRENTICE

.

Remember back some twenty or so years ago when we wrestled with imperfect desktops and cranky printers?

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I remember:

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HOW TO CONVERT ELECTRONIC-SCREEN-IMAGE PRINT INTO GOOD OLD-FASHIONED INK-ON-PAPER PRINT IN THIRTY OR SO STEPS WHILE KEEPING BEPTO-BISMOL HANDY

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Got to print as many copies as possible before the machine revolts again…

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Must cross fingers and hope for a miracle…

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I’m right in the middle of trying to produce a bunch of copies of the Alabama Writers’ Conclave brochure announcing this year’s seminar, using my trusty HP Deskjet 940c Hewlett-Packard printer, when the damned thing stops printing and flashes this little yellow light while at the same time producing on the computer screen a message that basically says, “You’ve got the wrong toner cartridge installed, so un-install it and install the correct toner cartridge, you imbecile!”

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The machine stops printing the brochures, which means that I can’t meet half the writerly deadlines I’ve imposed upon myself, so that I hand-deliver what I have managed to print thus far.

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I cleverly un-install the printer cartridge and install one of the old cartridges (one that’s supposed to be out of ink), and the little yellow light immediately stops blinking.

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There is hope.

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I start printing more brochures, but then a sign comes up on the screen saying, “This cartridge is low on ink. Replace it. That means un-install it, you imbecile!”

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I continue running copies anyhow, keeping a close eye on the brochures so that I can stop as soon as the ink gives out, which it never does, except now the message of the screen tells me, “You’ve installed this cartridge improperly, so do it again until you get it right, you imbecile.”

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Where does a machine like this learn a term such as imbecile? I wonder.

.

I make the screen message disappear and the machine keeps on printing. Wanting to stay ahead of the impending demise of the cartridge, I again place a new one in the printer and get that damned blinking yellow light again. So…I go downstairs and next door to Kinko’s and purchase a brand-new cartridge (paying premium price), thinking that perhaps the old one is faulty. As soon as I’ve tried the new cartridge and found it not working, I return to Kinko’s and get another one—which also does not work.

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Now I have to face the inevitable Fork in the Road: Do I call the local printer-repair company and pay for a house call, or do I contact Hewlett- Packard’s “help” center and sit around for hours listening to really annoying music while another computer places me on hold with some message like, “Just sit there like the imbecile you are and listen to this irritating music while a techy finishes his bologna sandwich and recreational pharmaceutical out back…then we’ll get with you.”

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The next day, having had no success in contacting either the local printer repair company or the internet technical help department, I go to Office Depot and purchase yet another cartridge, just in case the two at Kinko’s are part of a conspiratorially faulty pack. No luck with that cartridge, either. After calling and talking with three different printer repair staff members over a period of three days, none of whom is a technician and none of whom gets the message I’m leaving correct, I’m ready to give up. But I call back one more time and try to see whether a technician is available. The operator says, “You said we delivered the wrong cartridge to you?”

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“No!” I say, “I just wanted to get the printer working again.”

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“Oh,” she says, “I thought you wanted to talk with a technician, but they’re all out.”

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“I don’t care whether I talk with a technician or not,” I say, “I just want the printer repaired so that I can use it.” I’m getting snippy by now, and I’m suddenly turning four years old.

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Meanwhile, a Hewlett-Packard guy calls back (after charging me $30 via credit card) to see if the problem has fixed itself. “Well, as a matter of fact, it did fix itself,” I say, which is true, since about a half hour ago, a technician from the local printer repair company walks in unannounced, to look at the printer person-to-machine, so to speak. I tell him the problem, he takes the offending cartridge out of the printer—exCUSE me, he un-installs the cartridge—and licks his right thumb, then runs the wet thumb over the copper-colored contact surface of the cartridge. He sticks the cartridge—uh, INSTALLS it—back into the printer, and the printer starts working immediately. I try the other cartridges I’ve bought and sure enough, they don’t work until I’ve rubbed an even compound of spittle onto the contacts with my thumb.

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The technician gives me a philosophical, “Well, our job is done here, Tonto, we’d best be moseying along” look and leaves, not charging me a thing for his visit.

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When the internet Hewlett-Packard guy I’ve paid $30 calls up, I tell him what happened, and he just says, “Remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing,” to which I reply, “Maybe you should add this instruction to your list when making suggestions about printer repairs.” Then, as an afterthought, I say, “On the other hand, it might not work where you live. Southern spit is probably unique in its healing qualities.”

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He can only agree.

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My printer works fine. Now, I just have to un-install my attitude about printers and try to make friends with this one. After all, I’ll be spitting on it regularly from now on

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on facebook:  https://youtu.be/Q6mXlIMAQ0o

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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FISHWRAPPERS ARE ME

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I’m making my way from early-morning creaky front porch to dew-sprinkled automobile this morning. Should you pass by my home at this moment, I will wave and smile. I like doing that.

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My right hand slides down the damp metal bannister to the speckled sidewalk. I head toward the dusty white picket fence gate and pry it open. It always expands and contracts as humidity rises and falls. On the sidewalk just past the gate lies a blue-bagged folded newspaper awaiting my free hand. The other hand holds my morning liquid, my bag of necessities, my container of munchings.

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I toss the newspaper into the open car door. It lands on the front passenger seat. It is quickly topped with bag and paraphernalia. I’ll retrieve it later.

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Ever since I tenured as an adult, I have been happily addicted to the newspaper and its contents and its attending rituals.

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After a mile or two, I sit within idling vehicle, waiting for a store to open. I open the blue plastic bag, check the freshly-gnawed hole at its edge—a daily sign that some critter, hearing the PLOP of the paper on wet grass, rushed over to see whether it is edible.

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Unfolding the front page I brace myself for whatever horrors and joys will leap out—as, usually, they must do.

.

Then, I search for the inside table of contents that will point me to what I want to know. First, what page will contain today’s obits? There is no better way to briefly encapsulate someone’s life. A morning short story with beginning, middle and end neatly arranged.

.

Then, the quote of the day. Somebody somewhere said something worth repeating—sad, mad, glad, goofy, inspirational…whatever. Then I dive into the editorial page and its litany of grumblings and wisdoms and angrified letters. Enough to make the head swim…or at least tread.

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I unfold and expand the paper with print-smeared fingers and noisily search for the science page. I find relief within the science page because at its best it provides me with nonpolitical nonfictionalized nonagenda data. A respite from the noise of pay-attention-to-my-life or please-believe-my- exaggerated-truths or won’t-you-buy-my-product-or-my-service-just-because-I-present-it-so-charmingly.

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The  shop before me opens its doors. I stuff the newspaper parts onto the car floor and get ready to face the day. I am filled with info both new and recycled. But at least I find a way to jump-start the next 24 hours, the 24 hours till my next critter-pecked newspaper grins at me from the sidewalk or some nearby shrubbery.

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HOW OLD AM I?

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I’m so old I must hold in my hands each and every morning…a newspaper! Don’t wish to experience mornings without such a crinkly object at hand. Don’t know how I would get along without the news of the day stretched forth before me. Don’t wish to know.

.

So there

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast at: https://youtu.be/Omp-4jwRlIw

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

.

THE DOWN-SOUTH MOON SEES YOU

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The full moon is suspended in a childhood southern sky. There it is, glowing like a buttermilk snowball just above the starry eastern horizon.

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It is seventy-five years ago in this deep south village, and tonight the heavens belong exclusively to eight-year-old Jimmy Three.

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Jimmy Three has the universe all to himself because he is the only kid in sight who is lying flat on his back on an old handmade quilt spread upon dewy grass.

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For this moment, Jimmy Three is just another imagination floating in the ether, allowing his dreams to guide him.

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He squints at the creamy moon and starts to form questions.

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How is it that he can hide the entire orb behind his tiny thumb? It doesn’t make sense. He learns in school that the moon is thousands of miles big. He know that he is a mere handful of inches in height, his thumb smaller still.

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So how can the moon be so easily obliterated at his personal leisure?

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Does this phenomenon occur only in Alabama skies, or is he becoming aware that any kid anywhere on the planet can mimic his inquiry? Can kids everywhere experience the firmament, observing all the wonders that adults have long ago given up?

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Will Jimmy Three one day forget about the miracles just above his head? Will life become such a full-time distraction that he forgets to dream?

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Is wonderment over when he rolls up the quilt and sleepily heads toward home? Will activities of daily living turn him into an almost-aware ghostly figure?

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Will Jimmy Three grow elderly and wizened and put-upon by responsibility as the years race forward?

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Or can Jimmy Three find a way to privately re-visit his quilty glowing dewy moments of childhood, when all that matters for a few minutes is the gossamer fact that the heavens and Jimmy Three are close friends?

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Will the heavens recall Jimmy Three’s pleasure, or will Jimmy Three take his memories away with him to a private and starry haven that nobody else, nothing else, can access?

.

As a village elder Jimmy Three to this day loves questions like these, questions that you can answer any way you like, because they exist beyond science, beyond reality. But never beyond memory

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:

https://youtu.be/G8-sbhT-sE0

or read the transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

ALABAMA THRILL HILLS

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Zooming around the curves of Thrill Hills, my hometown’s least heralded but at one time best-utilized roadway, was the nighttime occupation of entire generations of teenagers.

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What my father’s generation called “Thrill Hills” extended the entire length of Fifteenth Street East, from Northington Campus all the way to Five Points near the Veterans Administration Hospital. It seemed like a long way, way back then.

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What was the overriding importance of Thrill Hills to teenagers of my father’s time, and mine?

.

Well, you might get different stories from different people. Thrill Hills was relatively unpatrolled at night, so kids could try out their parents’ automotive vehicles and hopefully never leave evidence behind of what speeds they achieved.

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Thrill Hills was unlighted. You could not easily be identified in the darkness.

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Back in those days, everybody knew everybody in this Down South village, so you couldn’t get away with much if you were seen whizzing by at 65 miles an hour on Fifteenth Street—a considerable speed back then.

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But my father finally told me the real reason Thrill Hills was so popular with teens.

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It was a place where for a moment you could get very close to even your most timid date for the evening.

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Once you pressed the accelerator and leapt over those steep hills in the middle of the night, into the asphalt valleys and around the surprise turns, your date would hopefully grab hold of you real tight, scream loud and get all nervous and excited.

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Back then, that was as close to Going All the Way as you could get. If you’re too young to know what Going All the Way meant, ask me or any old-timer.

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Thrill Hills also gave a girl an excuse to grab a guy without necessarily making a commitment. At least the date would be a memorable one, one you could talk about a whole passel of years later, just like my old man did. Just like I’m doing.

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Every time I come to the village of my youth I try to explore the old routes to places, and Thrill Hills is one of them.

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Unfortunately, Thrill Hills isn’t so thrilling anymore. The road has been widened and lit and striped, making it a lot less daring. The hills have been smoothed down. They no longer have those steep dips and sharp turns. They are no longer as menacing.

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The main loss is that feeling of remoteness, other-worldliness.

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Next time I’m cruising my past, I’ll take one more imaginary tour of Thrill Hills. I just may press the accelerator at the top of Thrill Hills and once again get that wonderful scary feeling in the pit of my stomach as the car zooms downward in freefall, hopefully causing my wife to grab hold of me and scream from remembered passion instead of abject disapproval.

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I won’t know this will happen till I’ve tried it, will I

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/VnHy-Q0b0ms

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

.

WATCH OUT!

ONE MORE DOWN-SOUTH BOOK IS ABOUT TO LAUNCH ITSELF 

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Not so long ago, I published a book of random leftover thoughts that didn’t make it into  previous books. The book was called WHAT I SAID. It was fun to see people’s reactions to the original bits and pieces that leapt out of my mind over the years. It is filled with ideas mad, sad, glad, bad, silly, profound, stupid, wise.

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I thought it was done, this volume of going-nowhere notes. But after the book made its rounds, the thoughts kept coming. I could not stop my brain. So, next week, yet another book will go to press, a sequel called WHAT MORE CAN I SAY?

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Here are some lines that will appear in the new book:

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Page 6. Everything happens for no particular reason.

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Page 7. A galoot is someone who does not know what a galoot is.

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Page 8. Someday I’d like to gather a bunch of artists’ collages

and turn them into old magazines.

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Page 16. Profusely equals exactly how many?

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Page 19. How does a snail know when it has a runny nose?

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Page 20. I look forward to the day First Place comes in Second.

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Page 22. A trash can is actually a time capsule.

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Had enough? The book contains hundreds of unpredictable thoughts. I am giving you a heads-up in case you want to run for cover before it comes out.

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As a bonus today, here are some more:

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Page 25. I just realized that sooner is sooner than sooner or later.

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Page 29. Boarding the asylum elevator, he found himself ascending into madness.

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Page 32. When applauding, you get a better sound by using both hands.

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Page 49. Sometimes I’m wishy, other times I’m washy.

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Page 53. It is high time we re-invented the wheel.

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Wish me luck

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s 4-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/Jwmr-IIBbfY

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Life, actually…

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SMILES THAT DIM THE SUNLIGHT

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Here’s something to ponder. That is, here’s something to ponder if you happen to be in a pondering mood.

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I’m about to ponder, so let this be a warning to you. If this is not your Ponder Day, maybe you can avoid a preponderance of ponder by skipping today’s Red Clay Diary. There may be much better ways to spend the next four minutes.

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For us, the stragglers who decide to stick around and see what the Reed guy has to say, here it is:

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I am squinting at the front door of my little bookshop. Squinting because the outside sunlight behind an entering customer is brighter than the customer herself. I can’t make her out against the competing glare.

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Still, I do what I think is the right and polite thing to do, I greet the customer with a smile and a “How are you today?”

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The customer scours the merry clutter of the store to locate the source of my genetically deep and loud voice.

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She spies me, then responds to the friendliness within my words. Suddenly the light of day reverses itself. That’s because her smile dims all sunlight and brightens her surroundings. Sunlight is secondary for a moment.

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“I’m fine, how are you?” she replies.

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“I feel great because I’m in a bookstore,” I say.

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She adds a giggle of recognition to her smile and begins her awe-filled journey into the interior, her smile illuminating the darkened aisles.

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As all book people are aware, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in most philosophies. (My apologies to Billy Shakespeare.)

.

I am taken by this person’s smile. I am taken aback. I am reminded of all the many smiles, light and dark, broad and fleeting, slow and startling, joy-filled and slightly sad, self-conscious and uninhibited…all the many smiles that have graced my life throughout these flowing years.

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This customer’s smile reminds me that I have not always taken time to appreciate the unconscious gifts of happiness that visitors offer me. How could they possibly realize the effect of these smiles on people like me?

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A natural and spontaneous smile contains more uplifting data than a thousand words of cheer could ever absorb. No preparation or editing required. No apologies or clarifications needed. No politics or wayward beliefs need intrude. No challenges or arguments or explanations are on the agenda.

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Just a good smile.

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I don’t need an interpretation or explanation or retraction. I just need to enjoy the smile, enjoy the effects of the smile, enjoy the moment no-one can take away from me.

.

Is this too thoughty to ponder today? Or is it OK to take a mo’ and simply recognize the smiles that are dormant within us? Is it OK to grant permission to the interior smile, permission to surface, take over the face, turn the frown upside down? Just smile?

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I’ve had my say. Now I think I will take a few seconds to appreciate the Land of Smiles. Now I can hope that, despite all disturbances to the contrary, you, too, can be amazed at how easily that buried smile can rise up and give you hope, if only in your dreams

.

© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast at https://youtu.be/DT12u58CyL4

or enjoy the transcript, below…

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Life, actually…

.

PARALLEL PARKING A PORTA-JOHN

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After all these years living here in my Down South village, I have learned not to be surprised by just about anything that happens.

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In fact, if something not surprising takes place, I find myself taking a second look to see whether there is a hidden surprise at the bottom of the box. I remember the days when a new Cracker Jack box always contained a swell toy, a fun collectible toy. That shows you how aged I must be.

.

My biggest and final Cracker Jack surprise came the day the prizes disappeared, replaced by attorney-approved harmless and boring little squares of paper that seemed to be telling me, FOOLED YOU!

.

I miss those Cracker Jack surprises.

.

Today, as I turn the main street downtown corner on the way to work, orange construction signs and barriers abound. There’s always something. Then there’s the peace of mind that comes from knowing you’re properly trained in the tools of the trade. Accessing courses about safely handling cutting wheels ensures not only compliance but also boosts confidence in using construction or manufacturing equipment efficiently and safely. Whether you’re new to this or simply refreshing your skills, the benefits are undeniable.

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I weave my way through an array of service vehicles and flashing lights and find a parking spot almost in front of the bookshop. The only thing keeping me from landing directly in front of the shop is a parked porta-john.

.

I parallel park in the marked space, admiring how neatly the porta-john in front of me is situated. And I wonder whether village street workers have to take lessons in how to parallel park a porta-john.

.

Silly boy, I think to myself. I’ll never unravel the porta-john mystery because there are way too many questions to ask. Such as, how long will the porta-john grace the space in front of the shop, should I triage customers to the porta-john if the shop restroom is occupied, shall I post a Reed Books sign turning the metal obelisk into a useful billboard, does a street worker feed coins into the meter every two hours, will the local predatory tow-away company remove the porta-john if it parks too long?

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This is heady stuff to ponder on an otherwise routine day.

.

Well, there is no such thing as a routine day in my little section of Down South. It is best to grab  a soft drink, take a deep breath and watch for the next surprise-free surprise.

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I have never been a bartender but I may know how one feels. If you are sole proprietor of a bar or a bookshop, you do not have the luxury of delegating difficult duties to someone else. The plight stops here and you have to deal with it regardless of knowledge or skill.

.

For instance, a young women enters the shop, wanders around for an unusual amount of time and winds up lying on the floor to thumb through a book, all the while blocking other customers from browsing.

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When I lightheartedly suggest she make room for others she smiles sweetly and says, “No.” I try again, politely. She again says No and spread-eagles, making a considerable part of the store impassable.

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This is what I mean by bartending and bookkeeping. You have to find a peaceful way to solve a problem without risking offending other customers, without coming across as a jerk, without escalating the situation, without creating problems both legal and time-consuming.

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I am up to the task. I act as if this is just part of my day. I take action…

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What would you do?

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I guess learning to parallel park a porta-john is easy compared to this

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/YUL_Nw603E0 

.

or read his transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

AUTHORITARIAN BOOKIE WOWS MOM ON A SUNNY DRY DAY

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I am back in recent time, just a decade ago.

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My old Subaru car knows the trolling route so well that it actually seems to drive itself. The ancient pale and pasty bookieman sits in the driver’s seat and watches the world go by while he and the self-driving vehicle head toward just another roadside junk store, sharing high hopes of finding nice old books for customers back at the bookshop.

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I am the bookie, the car is the bookiemobile.

.

Our journey is as interesting as the destination.

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By the side of the road in the western shambles of the city, I spy the gigantic WOW sign. It’s been there for decades, and it actually had an original purpose–that of selling bundles of socks for just a few cents. Now it’s a lonely WOW sign, a mileage marker on the way to a bookquest.

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The prankster side of me wants to sneak up to the sign and turn it over one night, thus affording passersby a comforting memory of MOM in our ramshackle lives. Being conscious and in the present, I don’t really need to carry out the prank. The sign is permanently affixed to my mind as a thought about MOM and all good moms past, present, future.

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 After all, I have, in addition to MOM thoughts, a need to forever replenish my trove of wonderful old volumes so that customers will always find some surprise among the plethora of packaged words in the store.

.

Later, back at the shop:

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“I hear you’re an authoritarian on used books!” a customer proclaims, presenting a waxed paper package like a swaddled baby in her outstretched arms. “Can you tell me about this?” She means that she wants me to unswaddle the book and tell her whether it’s worth a fortune.

.

“Well, I guess I am an authoritarian, at that,” I say, but not aloud. I do attempt to keep my smart aleck remarks to myself now and then. I am no authority on authoritarians.

.

I examine the book respectfully while the customer stares in expectation. It is disbound, dusty, stained and missing pages here and there. It is what her family has kept as an heirloom for a century. Now it has become an unread artifact that takes up space. The current generation waits for a rainy day when they can cash in.

.

My task is to let this customer down easily but share a reality check at the same time.

.

I turn the tattered pages, smile, and remark, “This is a nice book, well worth reading. Unfortunately, people who might want to purchase it will only accept it if it looks brand-new and is in almost perfect condition.”

.

“But this is an old book…old books don’t look new,” she protests.

.

I escort her to a display case and show her my copy of this exact book. It looks new because it has been well tended and respected all these years.

.

She gets the point. “Well, I guess somebody didn’t take care of this one.” She laughs and thanks me for taking the time to advise her, free of charge. I suggest the family retain and display the book out of respect for ancestors.

.

I’m done with travels for the day and here I am at the bookshop, arranging orphans and adoptees and fosters, displaying them so that perhaps customers will take them home and give them a little loving.

.

The morning’s journey was worthwhile. I have additional company on the shelves. My MOM is safely ensconced in memory, a memory of her love for books and her love for a son who could not keep his hands off books or his mind off the beauty of words and stories.

.

Can’t wait till the old junker and I head out once again on our periodic field trips to scan the countryside and dig for treasure for the sheer satisfaction of it

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/lnIK8aO2Dc8

or read his manuscript below:

.

Life, actually…

.

NOTES WHILE WAITING IN WAITING ROOMS

.

Waiting Room One: I sit here alone in a room with no mirrors. No windows. No back door. No skylight. No emergency exit. How can I make this long wait worthwhile? After all, I am not a lifeless mannequin. Yet.

.

If I am to find pleasure within this cage, it will have to come from checking out the unnoticeables. When I close my eyes, what do I hear? The thunder rumble of an air conditioning system. Hallway laughter. Pity-pat of rubber-soled shoes. Muffled doctor-to-patient explanations in the adjacent room.

.

Waiting Room Two: This public room is littered with waiters—those who obediently await The Verdict. Oddly, no-one is texting or otherwise tinkering with the electronic universe. Some are dozing, others are riffling through dogeared magazines. Unseen voices interact behind a glass booth.

.

Waiting Room Three: Another room of no windows or mirrors. Test results are reported. Bedside manner is just as important as good news. Congenial experts count.

.

On the way home I pass a glass window leaning against a building. A window with no rooms?

.

Waiting Room Four: There is humor to be found. I am sitting beneath a dangling TV set. This means all eyes are staring in my direction. A media interview above me features a whiny celebrity who craves even more attention. The waiting patients slouch and gaze up or phone-speak, or just swipe about, considering their consumer-spending capabilities. Eventually, there will be doctors.

.

As I make my escape, I warmly greet people just to surprise them with kindness. They smile despite their circumstances.

.

There will be more Waiting Rooms in my life. Stay tuned

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed