And Your Point Is?

zara's picture

It's been too long since I've posted here, especially after I promised that I was going to be better and do something once a week. Life, the mundane shit that goes on in the day to day, has been tiring and non-stop recently.

You should all know by now that my day job is picking up 4 developmentally disabled adults and shuffling them from school to other community activities. One of the more common places that we will dwell during these fetid end-of-summer days is one of our local libraries. There are bigger ones with fancier set-ups available to us, but most of the time I'm drawn to take my group to the smallest in town, a place where most of the time it's exceptionally quiet and uninhabited by various forms of vagrants looking for a cool place to take a nap in.

I have always been a bad library attendee. Often I end up reading the book that I'm carrying in my purse rather than any of the material that they have available, but I chalk it up to the trip not being for my own purposes but for those in my keep. However, earlier this week I dove in and got myself a library card for two simple reasons: I had proper identification in my purse (a phone bill and paycheck stub with my current address) and I needed a damn card to use the computers.

As I filled out the forms, I pondered why it was essential that someone need a card to log into a computer session. Too many homeless people wasting precious community access to computers in order to find dates on EHarmony? Or were they whiling away laughing at YouTube videos and chatting with their prolific list of MySpazz friends?

I waited for the sweet little librarian lady to fill out my information in the system and give me the coveted card and peered over my shoulder at my group of four, all studiously bent over last month's issues of Cat Fancy and Elle magazines. Oh, to be so easily amused with an advertisement for Escada shoes or flea medication.

Settling into a desk with an unbearably uncomfortable chair, I peered downward into the computer screen and entered in my card number and passcode I'd chosen. Yes, I said downward. For some reason, the computers at this little establishment have the monitors located under glass, making the view something akin to peering into a boiling cauldron in order to see your enemy on the move or check your Hotmail account.

I was clicking through emails with updates and answering questions from the few readers at joblo who regularly feel the need to curtail any bad habits that I might be displaying in my monkey writing gig when a younger cholo kid sat down at the computer next to me.

For those unfamiliar with the term "cholo," it basically refers to a young Mexican lad who is covered in homemade tattoos which look uncannily like a toddler's scribbling on the walls of the living room. This isn't me being a racist here, it's simply yet another one of those moments in life where I notice that stereotypes wouldn't exist if people weren't so devoutly attached to perpetrating them.

We both were quietly going about our own business when another young cholo came over to peer down into his friend's screen. The two of them made high-pitched chit-chat with one another about someone's girl who was hitting up Cholo Numero Uno behind the back of a boyfriend which both of them thought they were clever to know about.

Hey... you start a conversation near me in a quiet library, you should expect to be eavesdropped upon. I think that's written somewhere in the Constitution. "If thou speakest at a level in which I can hearest, I shall listen so as to have something to internally giggle about as a form of personal entertainment at thou's expense." Yeah, that's it.

Cholo Numero Dos decides in the middle of their conversation to drop something on the ground. I'm a chick, I'm not stupid and I know the deal. What, you want to smell my hair? Or are you sizing me up as a potential gringa beaner-lover? Seriously, I'm interested in your intentions, buddy.

As he stands up, he comments loudly, "Sorry man. Dropped my banana."

Oh. The tattoos thing. Haha. Wow... you should be a stand-in for Carlos Mencia, Cholo Numero Dos. DRR DRR DRR!

I fight the urge to turn my attention to him fully and just concentrate on appearing as if I can't hear him and am oblivious to his existence. My peripheral vision will do the work for me. Shit, I knew these guys wouldn't have a clue what that was or how it worked, so I was safe in typing randomly and keeping my head forward at a tilted down angle.

Cholo Numero Uno turned around and a long pause ensued. Cholo Numero Dos gestured to me, my hair up high in its usual sloppy ponytail, and Cholo Numero Uno started to laugh and panted "Banana. Huh-huh. Banana huh-huh," repeatedly. I believe that he was expecting me to respond, so of course I had an obligation not to.

See, you have to be slightly higher up on the food chain if you want me to waste my time on you with well-timed quips. I'd already eaten lunch at that point in the day and wasn't hungry for a plate of arroz y frijoles. (Rice and beans. I might be writing something that comes off as ethnically damaging, but dammit, I know the language and culture, so go fuck yourselves if any of you Whitey McWhitersons are going to attempt passing judgment.)

Cholo Numero Dos started thrusting his hips in a universal manner while Cholo Numero Uno continued his Beavis laughter. Where's Mike Judge when you need him? There's an untapped market. You're not exploiting the idiocies of middle-class white trash anymore. How about starting a new show about the browner side of town?

There really is no special ending to this story. Eventually the duo tired of fruitlessly grasping for my attention and pulled an Elvis. I finished up my emails, gathered my guys and we started the hour-long process of dropping everyone off.

Now I sit here and wonder... who the hell was that chick that was so interested in Cholo Numero Uno and where can I find her so I can peer into her vast cavity of a cranium?


*in best Beavis voice*

Hehe. She said 'fruitless.'

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