It’s Tuesday morning, and Charlie is sitting on a bird drop covered, green bench, in Central Park. The pigeons have landed for their morning meal, which sometimes lasts the entire day or until each one has filled its reserve. It’s a crisp 50 degrees, and it doesn’t appear that the day is going to warm up any more than it has at this point.
“Oh, no, here comes Wilard and his roommate, Rex,” Buddy says to himself. “I loathe these two. Rex always calls me Bubb. Call me Budd, Buddy, Budster, but not Bubb. Where are we, on the farm?”
“Hello, Charlie,” greets Rex, extending his hand as anyone who hasn’t seen a friend in a very long time would.
“Hello, Rex. Sit down. Rest a while.”
“Oh, no. That’s just great!” dismisses Buddy.
Wilard quickly walks over to Buddy and begins his small talk. “Buddy, why are you so quiet? You didn’t say hello, or acknowledge me as I walked up. What’s up?”
Buddy rolls his eyes upward to the sky and says, “Oh, sorry, how are you doing, Wilard?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Willard pants aggressively, tongue dropping out of his mouth, as though he’d been running briskly. He stops and slowly sits beside Buddy, trying to control his breathing and his shifting body movements. “Where do I begin?”
“How about from the beginning? Why don’t you catch your breath first. What, did you run all the way over here? If you’re not careful you will die a young death like so many of your breed do. I told Charlie that we should get some air this morning, so he brought me to the park where I could stretch out and enjoy the sun.” Buddy stretches his long torso to a downward dog pose, then back up again. “That apartment makes me crazy sometimes. So what were you about to say?”
“Well, it’s Whitney, a girl I’ve been seeing for about two months now,she is wearing my patience thin. Maybe it’s me, but I think she’s developed this killer’s look.”
“What do you mean a killer’s look?”
“When she wants me to do something, for instance, she will straighten out her smile, look me directly in the eyes, and she will not blink. Wherever her eyes move, that is where she wants me to move. Last night, we were watching something on television, I don’t remember what, when she wanted me to move to my right on the sofa. Apparently I failed to move quickly enough, so she gave me the look, followed by quick shove. I asked her what the problem was. Her response was that she wanted me to move over. She looked at me perplexed, as if I were the confused one. She could have just asked, right? The next day, she asked me to go with her to see her brother downtown. So we went. Everything was fine: we were laughing, talking about a customer he had in his store earlier, the eccentric people he meets daily, and life’s little vicissitudes. I felt comfortable enough to ask about his girlfriend; I had no idea they had just split up. Whitney shot me this look, a death gaze moving up then down. I kept talking. Her brother responded by changing the subject, so I went on talking. Tell me, Buddy, how was I to know that he had just split from her? Am I required to know everything?
So on our way home, she began by staring at me with a piercing look; this one burnt so hot its razor bead could slice you in half. That look gave me a migraine so intense I thought I was going to die. I’m not kidding, that look made me nauseous and I twitched for hours. Is it just me or does she have some demonic gazing powers? Do all women have this strange series of looks that I’m not aware of? Are they born this way or do they attend some strategic gaze training camp?
to be continued…