Magic Johnson

Jul 5, 2009
I found a notebook on the ground last week, five-subject and filled from front-to-back with neurotically tight and tiny handwriting. Both sides of the paper were covered, with no space between paragraphs or lines, and the same fine point black pen that was clipped to the spiral binding was used throughout. I couldn’t read anything, it gave me anxiety trying to focus on such a fuckwad of black. There was a resume in the front pocket with name/phone number. The woman who answered was unfriendly and abrupt. She hurriedly forced out “thank you very much” after making plans to meet up. It took a couple days, a few phone calls, to finally secure the exchange at my house. She sounded annoyed and rude over the phone, and I was sort of indignant. When I rolled up she was sitting on my front steps. Her demeanor was like a twenty-something that hadn’t finished the awkwardness of puberty. She couldn’t maintain eye contact and her shoulders were hunched over. She apologized for rescheduling, she had been called in to volunteer at the soup kitchen. I handed her the notebook and she took it with both hands and held it against her chest, like in 1950s movies where the highschool girl is shy. She handed me a CD and blurted “I made this for you. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Then she stumbled out the door.

I found a notebook on the ground last week, five-subject and filled from front-to-back with neurotically tight and tiny handwriting. Both sides of the paper were covered, with no space between paragraphs or lines, and the same fine point black pen that was clipped to the spiral binding was used throughout. I couldn’t read anything, it gave me anxiety trying to focus on such a fuckwad of black. There was a resume in the front pocket with name/phone number.

The woman who answered was unfriendly and abrupt. She hurriedly forced out “thank you very much” after making plans to meet up. It took a couple days, a few phone calls, to finally secure the exchange at my house. She sounded annoyed and rude over the phone, and I was sort of indignant.

When I rolled up she was sitting on my front steps. Her demeanor was like a twenty-something that hadn’t finished the awkwardness of puberty. She couldn’t maintain eye contact and her shoulders were hunched over. She apologized for rescheduling, she had been called in to volunteer at the soup kitchen. I handed her the notebook and she took it with both hands and held it against her chest, like in 1950s movies where the highschool girl is shy. She handed me a CD and blurted “I made this for you. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Then she stumbled out the door.
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