thisnewday | A Life, Not Mine, Scattered

There were repair orders--ROs, we used to call them--scattered on the ground, in the bushes, and even a page or two in an overhanging tree.

I stood there, for a moment, just looking at them. Then, I picked one up from the ground near my feet.

I confirmed that it was an automotive repair order, like the ones used in the shops where I'd worked, in Syracuse and Houston, some fifty years ago.

But the one I'd picked up was only the heavier bottom copy, the one the mechanic took with him, and kept out on the shop floor, while he did the work.

The top copies, the lighter paper ones with carbon paper in between, were missing, having been raggedly torn off instead of along the perforations, as intended.

Walking a few more steps, I came to what looked like a makeshift desk. On it were a phone, which appeared to be a landline, and next to that, more ROs.

Looking at the one on top, I noticed hand-written notes which I assumed were being taken over the phone before being abruptly cut off in mid-sentence.

Aside from the obvious disarray, it was reminiscent of the outdoor repair shops that I'd been so amazed to see when I first moved to Houston, in the dead of winter, from the frigid northeast.

Now, as I surveyed the scene in front of me, I was suddenly aware of several figures standing near me, men in gray, nondescript uniforms observing me and the chaos around us.

They didn't say anything, but I somehow understood that they wanted to know what I was thinking, what I might be intending to do.

I considered that, for a moment, and then just said, "I think I'm gonna gather up these papers and put them on the desk.

Then maybe put a weight on top of them so that if someone comes back for them, they'll mostly be where they belong."

Beyond that, I thought, there was really nothing else to be done. Because, if it's not your life, you can only do so much.

The gray men said nothing in response, and that's where the dream ended...

LPK
Dreamwidth/LJ
12.30.2024