Borders on the border

I was at our local Borders bookstore the other night rediscovering how crummy it is even for a Borders. It’s also right on the east-west divide of town, where the haves meet the have-nots and a few of the latter live in desperate circumstances in motels.

Surrounded by soccer moms, clip-art cute college students, and red-faced businessmen, I looked through the map section. Next to me an undergrad-aged East Asian-American guy was thumbing through a Parisian travel book, and next to the computer books a nerd of some kind with a shoulder bag and headphones was peering at an ASP howto book.

Suddenly the bathroom door next to us burst open and out lurched the other Costa Mesa: a 35ish tweaker with long dirty blond hair, sweaty t-shirt, bad acid-washed jeans, and a wild 1000-yard stare. He looked around with that bus crazy bugeyed face that says “look me in the eyes and I own you,” so I studied a map of Turkey carefully. Without a particular victim to address, Motel Guy emitted this statement to the bookstore in general:


He left, so he couldn’t see me giggling helplessly into the maps, or the soccer moms blanching.

10 thoughts on “Borders on the border

  1. Am reminded of brother shouting “IT SMELLS LIKE DIRTY BUTTS IN HERE!” in the middle of a crowded (Christmas) department store bathroom, loud enough to prompt a reaction from the adjacent women’s room.


  2. Okay, I jsut re-read your entry and now I’m all embarrassed because it says “the other Costa Mesa.” It’s early, okay?!?!
    But I’m still pleased with myself for getting that in context. *preens*


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