Caress my brain with a breeze coming off my fingers, leaving me hell bent on stirring up trouble. I don’t stir up trouble. I’m fairly laid back, passing out peace like a tame rabbit wanting to be stroked. If I did stir up trouble, where and how would I do it?
I frequent the gym, the library (where I work), coffee houses, twelve step meetings, and grocery stores.
At the gym, I could go up to one of the women on steroids and tell her the drug isn’t favoring her, her jaw becoming square and her voice deep like a smoker’s rattle. Or I could go up to one of the half naked women and tell her she ought to cover up a bit more, a brush of belly tucked in by a T-shirt, simple. I could tell a male bodybuilder who has petite ankles that I wish I had his ankles, watch him cringe, his mouth forming a little o. There is the world’s loudest human; her conversation, heard in every corner of the gym, whom I could tell to tone it down. I might tell her to shut up, leaving her standing there, eyes wide, a puppy trained to silence.
At the library, the voices that I hear feed me words to repeat to patrons. The words are dehumanizing. If said, I would lose my job, rightly so.
At coffee houses, I might intentionally tip people’s coffee into their laps, hoping the coffee is not so hot it burns, not wanting to harm, simply wanting to play like a child throwing her sippy cup to the floor, giggling as she does it.
At twelve step meetings, I could tell the speaker to fuck off and sit down, raising the eyebrows of all in the room.
When in the grocery store, I would throw bananas to the floor and step on them, felling their squish like mud that has yet to harden. I could let the cashier know she is ringing up items too slowly, delaying my exit.
I am glad I don’t create trouble. It would leave me feeling bad like an adolescent who pees in his bed. Or like a girl rejected by a boy with a head of thick hair that flops to the side, hiding one eye.