The Day Before I Decided to Publish My Mediocre Stories

This is not an interesting story. The phrases “best time ever, greatest vacation ever, worst day of work ever” are overused nowadays. After deciding to write about my mediocre stories, I had to go back and write about the day before the decision. As with everything in life, there were multiple events that lead to this life non-altering decision.

Sometimes I use vacation time to complete tasks that are tough to do while working at an office. I took a week off and made a list of about 15 chores, which seemed pretty do-able. I decided to go to the Cape for Monday and Tuesday, so I didn’t accomplish anything those days. Then Wednesday I returned and chose to clean the kitchen (not on the list) and cook some food (not on the list). So I started my chores Thursday. I woke up around 8:30, surfed the internet a little, made breakfast, and started around 10. I got back at 2 and looked at my list of 15 chores. I had completed 1. It felt like I had done more. After a period of despair, questioning my life choices and general confusion; I decided to waste more time and determine what the I had done all day.

The one thing I accomplished was to get my car’s expired inspection sticker updated. However, just yesterday while driving home in the rain, the windshield wipers ripped apart. So my first stop was to buy new windshield wipers. I pulled into the local Autozone, with a parking lot set up so that in order to get out, you had to back up into a two lane highway. Internally I questioned if perhaps there may have been a better way to design this building knowing a major road was right there. Anyway, I walked in. With a wall of windshield wipers staring me in the face, I asked “is this your windshield wiper selection?” One employee laughed, the other rolled his eyes. So I pulled out the book, rifled through it and surprisingly found the part number of the windshield wipers. So far, so good. The helpful employee asked what the part number was, I said “two-ten E”.

He said “two-ten EEEE?” as if it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

I said yes, “two-one-zero-E, it’s a Bosch part number”.

He said “Ohhhhh, twenty one, OOOO EEEE”.

I rolled my eyes, but quickly found my windshield wipers. I’ve now successfully bought my windshield wipers.

Uneventfully, I pulled out of the parking lot without getting into a car accident.

Next, I had to install them. As I was ripping through all the packaging and getting annoyed with how complicated it was, I pulled out not only windshield wipers, but two adapters. I swore to myself, but then said “Ryan, you’re an engineer, you can do this”.

I glanced at the instructions, and getting annoyed with how complicated they were, I decided to figure it out. Because I’m an engineer. I blankly looked at my existing wipers. Then at the new ones. Then at the existing. Then at the new ones. This went on for a while. Finally, I realized that not only do I not need the two adapters, there seems to be an extra part on the windshield wipers. So I snapped the extra part off, and miraculously, they fit on the wiper stalk after I jammed them together.

Next I had to find a place to get an inspection.

I hate getting a Mass inspection. I think they only give a license to the most run down, miserable businesses they can find. It's like the Mass government is intentionally trying to give us something to complain about besides the ridiculous cost of living. I pull up to my usual Southie location, no parking anywhere. They’re usually annoyed to have to do it anyway, so I look up the Mass website to find another place. Drive over, packed. Annoyed, I pulled up the website again, and found one next to the projects in Southie. To my utter shock, there was no other customers there. And the second festivus miracle of the day occurred. The employee didn’t get mad at me for giving him business! It was the highlight of my day.

Next, I had to go to the grocery store. This one also wasn’t on my to do list, but I did add it later and crossed it off so I could feel more accomplished. I drove up 95, was about ten feet from the point where the white line shifts right to create the exit ramp and traffic came to a complete stop. I took a deep breath and told myself “we’re almost there buddy, keep calm”. After only two or so minutes I was able to get off the highway. The shopping was uneventful until checkout. I had two older women checking me out and doing the bagging. One asked if I’d like paper, plastic or a box. I thought, wow, a box? That’s an option these days? Excitedly, I ordered the box. The woman doing the bagging huff’s and says “Oh, I hate the box”. So I said, “I can take plastic too, it’s not a big deal”. We compromised on one box, and the remainder in plastic. The woman picks out a box that has a huge hole in one side. Internally I think, “they're ruining the box for me”. So she starts packing the box with a giant hole and plastic bags. Then begins commenting on all my food choices.

“Ooooh, chobani lemon, do you like that? How is it?”

“Its good, it’s lemony.”

“Oh, ok, I’ve never had it”

Silence.

Other woman, “Chobani, its like you have to learn a different language to say food names these days. What is it? Greek?”

First woman “it sounds middle eastern”

Bagging woman “Fasheeeeee”

Register “That’s another type of yogurt.” Stated as though we needed a narrative to translate for unaccustomed viewers. “Do you like it?”

“Ew, I don’t eat yogurt. Ech, yuch”.

Cashier “Oh no, there’s a hole in the box!”

Me, internally “Ughhh”

Bagging woman “OH JEEZ, now the box is broken! I hate boxes!”

Me “I have tape in the car, I’ll fix it”. That was a lie, so I could leave, and they wouldn’t repack my stuff.

The cashier looks at me in disbelief “Really, you have tape in your car??”. She clearly thought I was a giant liar.

“Yup”, I am a giant liar apparently.

Finally, after many more comments, I get my receipt, thank the ladies and leave.

As I’m leaving “Do you want paper, plastic or a box”

Woman behind me in line, “Oh, I’ll just take plastic, I couldn’t take a box after all that!”

About an hour later I arrived home and realized Jon had the remote for the garage door. We live in an apartment complex, so the door will only stay open for a short period of time after pressing the button. I parked as close as I can, get out, run around the building, open the door from the inside, run to my car, and as I turned the key, I watch in horror as the garage door closes.

I think for a minute, and I realize that if I had some tape I could block the sensor and keep the door open. I laugh about the irony (coincidence?) of my white lie earlier. If only I wasn’t such a liar. Is this what Karma feels like? I thought it would be more peaceful. I put the car into drive and drove around the block. Then think “my car’s a mess, I bet there’s something sticky in here”. After rifling through the storage thing between the two front seats, I find a triple A sticker that had expired years ago and I had never thrown away. Procrastination saves me again. I park the car, run around the building, place my dirty old triple A sticker on the sensor and successfully park in the garage. My errands are complete.

Upon entering my apartment I looked at some very filthy floors, so I sweep (not on my list) and I hide the remains under the trash can as my friend Jen had taught me to do 7 years earlier.

Then I started writing about my day. My thoughts stirred with the potential: Is there a website for mediocre stories? What if there isn’t, and I google it, and someone immediately buys the domain. I decide not to bother. I begin to stare off into the distance for a while.

Hours later.

Jon arrives home and we decide to try a bar that’s less than a block away. It's the new Southie hot spot. It has food trucks inside, brick walls, a roof deck, super tall ceilings and a huge bar. We’d been waiting to go there for weeks. My being on vacation was the perfect time to go before the masses exited work at 4:30. As we walked in, something was clearly awry. The barstools were disheveled, the food trucks empty. I asked the bartender, “are you open? Or are you doing something else…” my voice trailed off as the confusion about the unlocked doors but uninviting interior happenings began to unnerve me.

“No, we’re closed for a private party for something something something, but feel free to take a look around and check the place out if you want”. Jon and I smiled pleasantly as we found the nearest exit.

There was another bar we had not necessarily been looking forward to going to, but was new. We felt obligated to check it out. As we walked in we noticed nearly 30 taps on the wall. Jon perused the list, and I ordered a Harpoon IPA.

    Bartender: “Really? With all the beers, you want a Harpoon?”

    Me: “Yeah, I like my Harpoon”. As I said this I felt my insides turning over. I was used to being chastised for my love of Bud Light, but Harpoon? This was new.

    Jon couldn’t decide on a beer so the bartender poured him a sample of 3 different beers. Jon let me taste them. I had to wash the taste out of my mounth with Harpoon.

    Later, upon ordering another round, I was asked if I really wanted another Harpoon. I said “yes, I like what I’m familiar with”, as if I’m a 90 year old man stuck in his ways. He looked at me disapprovingly, I felt uncomfortable.