The day after the accident I had to wake up early for an 8am shift. Even earlier, given that I had to walk. I was working with Annie and—and I can’t tell you who, not only do I forget her fictitious name, but also her real name, and her gender, he might have been a man, who knows. Perhaps there wasn’t even another person, and in a sense there wasn’t.
The days, or those days I should say, or maybe I mean both, were starting to blend together, even in light of my accident, which was a punctuating sort of event. I wondered: is very little happening, or am I just not paying enough attention? Same question for the present. The trouble with keeping records is that you realize how very little happens, that’s why it’s difficult to sustain the effort.
I told my bicycle accident story to Annie, not without some hesitation, however, because I didn’t want to seem to be vying for pity. Yet it might have been strange not to mention something like that; that could betray an excessive and self-conscious modesty, which is definitely a form of egoism worth avoiding—assuming I would have been conscious of the modesty, and I would have. I was vying for empathy, that’s it, or better yet sympathy; not pity, certainly not apathy. And also, simply, I was vying for an opportunity to tell a story, that can be enjoyable and it is, supposedly, what I do, here for instance.
After work it was laundry time, a chores as always, especially since I had to walk to the laundromat, not that I would have taken my bike, had I had it. Thankfully (thankfully!) along the way a very southern gentleman also doing his laundry picked me up in his truck and drove me there. I don’t know if my mom would approve of me getting in a stranger’s car, I joked. He guffawed.
I used to haul my laundry on foot just like you. And then for a while my girlfriend did it for me. Wish I still had that girlfriend! he said.
You’re telling me, I said.