"Misspelled Epitaphs," part one.
"Misspelled Epitaphs" is the name of a writing project I haven't attended to in quite a long time. It is mostly a series of essays and short observations about the tragedies and sadness of everyday life, as a reminder that our experience is fragile. One of the major themes I find in my artwork I refer to by my own neologism--"the everyday catastrophic"--and this is the first of the series. To be continued when I encounter something that fits.
After work I went to McDonald's. Two attorneys sat a few tables away, one on the phone, the other leafing through a three-ring binder. Three rows of empty chairs behind me, two men, old and grizzled and aching, sitting stiffly and moving more so, talked about friends and who was left and the war. The lawyer on the phone barks to her secretary. "I forgot, he's on vacation, send him an email. He'll get it anyway." She keeps talking to the man with the binder.
The two old men started talking. Their English mangled, grammar worse, clothes terrible. Spattered with paint and grime running in streaks down frayed pant legs. I don't look straight at him. I can hear him too well. "Where are you going on vacation?" the first one asks. "I don't know. Maybe take the kids somewhere," the second replies.
The female attorney laughs. "What are you going to do with this settlement?" she asks. The other attorney shrugs.
The old men are quiet.
"Been thinking about heading down to Bermuda or someplace warm," he says. "Get a boat, sail it down there. I don't really have the time for it all. Pool, maybe. That would be nice in summer."
The first old man looks to the second. "How's the boat?" he asks, his voice wavering just a little. "Boat's fine," the second says. "Gonna take the kids down on it to Florida. It'll be warm."