Batman Redux

I’m done with the grocery store. I’m dragging a little, and while I generally avoid it because I don’t like chi-chi, Starbuck’s is the only place in town to get a decent latté. I had quite enough fucking chi-chi living in Chapel Hill for five years, thank you. In Memphis, we called Starbuck’s the Evil Empire. They say that there is a church on every corner, and Starbuck’s is running a close fucking second.

Sometimes the clerks at Starbuck’s seem too perfect. I wonder if they aren’t Stepford Clerks or something. I just can’t beat the hunky twink behind the counter with Bat, he’s so tyro. And it might get blood in my latté; or if he’s an android, there could be an electrical fire. There’s nothing much of note in Starbuck’s except the chi-chi displays, which I hate, so I linger at the counter to admire Twink a minute. Finally I sit directly across from the yuppie guy in the corner, who is yapping on his cell phone, making sure that the rest of us can hear. Damn, it’s hard to enjoy my latté and raspberry scone with that jackass on his phone. I stare him down until he’s ready to leave. I sense his disdain for me, his superiority. (I am empathic, you know.) He gets up to leave and swaggers toward the door.

Bat, at a precise angle. Yuppie trips over Bat with an "Oh fuck!" Instinctively, he releases his hold on Phone when he makes a futile grasp at the display next to him. Phone in midair; Bat, in a swing that would make my father proud. The arc of Phone is as beautiful as the sound it makes against the far wall. I get a refill while Yuppie pulls himself together, then head for the door. Bat, slung over my shoulder as I bounce out the door.

Next up, mail. I’m avoiding the post office because they always, always piss me off, and there’s nothing in there for Bat anyway, but some drab walls and a couple of cash registers. I could go on tangent here and say that by now it could have crossed your mind that I have some unresolved hostility issues. Well, I don’t think that’s the case. Sometimes, things just break. Like windows, head lamps, kneecaps, small electronics and shit. Shit just breaks sometimes. They don’t make ’em like they used to.

Mmmkay, mail. I need to send some movies back to Netflix. They have been pissing me the hell off. Maybe you caught that little article in the local rag a few weeks ago about how they slow your service when you have more than nine rentals in a month. They do. I told a friend about it months ago when my shit started slowing down in the mail. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. Look at the shit I rent. It ain’t like the whole damn country is renting those gay ass indie films, and when I say gay, I mean gay, and not in a figurative way. You’d think they would just send me my stuff. And then when they arrive, they won’t play. Bat, many times in quick succession, on the movies. I’ll have to go online and mark them as "damaged."

To be continued...