Dust and Dusted

In the Middle of Nowhere

With my job description, and everything else that goes along with it, you wouldn't think that I'd have much to do with humor. For the most part, you'd be right.

Occasionally, though, there are those instances that come along, like the lone curly fry in an order of the otherwise conventional variety, where you're pleasantly surprised by the change and have to react accordingly.

He was still in the dust when I found him, legs splayed out in front, palms flat on the ground behind. There was a layer of dust on his thick, wide spectacles, another over his face, and a few more layers down everywhere else. Not too far away, his suitcase sat open in the dirt, its contents scattered to the world at large.

He saw me as I glided to him, but his eyes were distant, unfocused, and for a second I had the feeling he didn't even recognize me. I was apparently right. Most of the time when I'm at work, it's the other guy who begins the conversation, usually with a few protests and some pleading and groveling. I'd seen them all, but after a couple of minutes of awkward silence, it seemed he wasn't the usual variety.

I decided to take the plunge.

"Bad day?"

His eyes refocused, running up and down the vast dust plains before jumping to me. Anger and frustration wasn't something that you saw all the time, but it did find its way to you occasionally.

"The nerve of that guy," he sputtered, "The nerve!"

His eyes slid off me again, back over my shoulder and into the distance. He'd forgotten me already, by the looks of it, so I felt the need to prod.

"What did he do?"

The look he gave me was the one usually reserved for the annoying fly that returns incessantly, even with the rolled up newspaper to inform them that their services were no longer required.

"WHAT?!" he demanded, irritably.

I gestured at him, "What did he do?"

Disappointment closed curtains over his annoyance, in turn giving way to misery.

"I just showed him the 1658 Vintage," he said, lower lip trembling, "And he slammed the door in my face!"

Heartbroken, he gestured at the shards of something large and round scattered by his ankle, "That was my last 1658 Vintage, too."

"A shame," I ventured, "That yellow on brown really stood out."

"Yellow was the residue left over." he sighed, "That's what made it unique."

"I see."

He shook his head wildly, rattling the thoughts in his head as if hoping they'd settle in place where they were supposed to. As if deciding to make the best of it, he climbed to his feet and ambitiously began to try and dust himself off.

He looked up at me in the midst of his endeavors.

"How well do you know your chamber pots?" he asked, his tone abruptly businesslike, eyes looking me up and down out of what could have been habit. Whether or not he was sizing me up for one was uncomfortably unclear. He noticed my cowl shift, and laughed.

"Forgive me, where are my manners," he stood and reached up above his head. When his fingers groped air, he blushed and looked around, flustered, till he spotted a little bowler hat on the ground a few feet behind him. He stooped to grab it, briskly beat the dust off it and, hat in hands, offered me a slight bow.