Mr. Arse-In-Air

I've missed several days of novel-writing, thanks to ill health. Common sense suggests that I take today off, as well, but I've never had much of that. Maybe I'll write for six hours instead of eight, or one thousand words instead of two. Maybe I'll write about my Saturday, and sneak back to bed.

On Saturday morning, I took the dust out. I looked a proper tramp (saggy coat, messy hair, laden down with dustbags), so of course I ran into someone I knew. I didn't realise it had happened, at first. My hood had flopped down over my face, blotting out everything above knee level. I shuffled onto the elevator, knowing only that I shared it with two pairs of shoes and a walking stick.

The shoes on the right greeted me: "Hi, Socar." I responded with my customary grace and composure, jumping about a foot and making a sound like haaaaaaa!

"Oh! I didn't see you, there," I said, pushing my hood out of the way. It struck me, then, that my face hadn't been showing at all. Had I been identified by the tattiness of my coat, or the age of my Reeboks?--or do I always smell like a dustman? I mumbled something vaguely sociable, possibly having to do with garbage. I'm not sure what I said. It's all snarled up with embarrassment.

That wasn't the worst of it, either. My neighbour insisted on helping me carry the dust to the skips, and when we got there--oh, dear God! When we got there, there was this bum sticking out, this great bluejeansed arse, pointing straight at the sky. I mean, I've heard of Dumpster divers, but this was ridiculous. I didn't know what to do. Should I throw in the trash, and risk beaning the poor guy, or wait for him to finish his prospecting? Should I try and attract his attention? Should I--

Whilst I was muddling about in confusion, my neighbour was tossing the garbage--my garbage--in the skip. Fearful of seeming lazy, I hastened to follow suit. I think I hit Mr. Arse-In-Air. I didn't do it on purpose: it was more of a ricochet situation. There must've been another bag in the way. I apologised, but got no reply. Maybe I stunned him. Maybe he just didn't care. Either way, it was awkward. Very awkward. And then, I had to stand about making conversation in a big, waggly arse-shadow. I excused myself as quickly as I could. Exchanging pleasantries near garbage is one thing, and bad enough. Exchanging them near garbage with somebody in it is the stuff Monty Python shorts are made of.

And, on that note--speaking of garbage, and so forth--I'd best get back to Giant Rats.