It started two years ago, in the summer of 2006, and ever since I’ve walked by, gazing longingly, trying to glean some sort of intricate secrets from the disorganized scene before me.
I guess part of it comes from the fact that I’m not an artist. I only deal in concretes and can’t see the big picture. Some can look at a blank canvas and see potential for great works of art, I look at a blank canvas and I see just that.
My condo building’s twin tower is in the midst of construction – they’ve just started putting in the windows on the lower floor. Every day, like clockwork, I peel back the blinds to look for any changes or additions to the structure since my last premeditated viewing on the observation deck.
Today, on my journeys, I walked past the far side of the building in progress, a sight that I rarely see mostly because I never really need to walk on that side of the building (except for that one time when my gate key wasn’t working and had to walk, million grocery bags in hand, all around the exterior of the gated community).
I walked to the post office for the second time in as many weeks. The address on my id no longer matches my current address, because I moved in the fall, and the name on my id no longer matches my full legal name after having my wallet stolen at Christmas last year.
The woman at the post office took a look at my delivery notice, then at my ID, then another glance at proof of my recent change of address. She looked puzzled. “Did you recently get married?” she asked quizzically. “Uh, no” I replied, groaning. “It’s a really long story…” and I trailed off, hoping that she wouldn’t make me tell said story. She seemed satisfied with my less than forthright answer and handed over my package.
I hardly think that anyone would be willing to go to that much trouble to fake documents in order to gain custody of a sleeveless sweatshirt I bought on eBay for $2.25.