Morphology

The interaction between the mass populi and I has been altered. I walk into work and the men go out of their way to say hi. The women whisper, but are a little shy if I approach. A look of primal lust and titillating fear ripples over their calm facade. I have become some sort of god-man.

The change is subtle, but for someone who has a tendency to notice minute and unimportant details of all my human interaction, this new mysterious subethereal communication of status is a little disconcerting.

I stopped by the Ghetto Gas and Save on my way to work the other day. The section of town is known as Clifton and it is populated mostly by cars with tiny wheels and men in wife beaters and gaudy bling. The August heat was baking me in the cab of my old truck, I was flush and sweaty. I exited the truck and began the journey towards the door. I try to ignore people in Clifton. They, in turn, ignore me. I could feel eyes on me. I looked to my right to see several men of questionable moral nature leaning and sitting on an Impala. Their uniform white shirts and baggy shorts signaled that they were not of a type who would appreciate my company. I met their eyes. I had a feeling this could end badly. The loudest of the group returned the gaze and gave a slight nod. Not the polite society downward drop of the chin, but the pointing of the chin at some celestial body on the low horizon. I returned it. The others of the local posse of indigents mimicked the movement. Odd.

I walked in with my coffee cup and filled it full of black tar Sumatra. My skin still had the sheen of sweat, hilighting my sun-browned skin. Veins bulged tastefully from my forearms. I pondered my new Olympian limbs. I slapped the lid on my coffee and looked up at the mirrored display behind the tobacco. I didn't ever remember seeing those defined of shoulders hiding under my ears. I have always been stocky, but there was a lean quality, a mean quality. I noticed my plain T-shirt collapsing and bulging out where muscle tone seems to have excreted itself out of my pores. Under my chest was spare and desolate country where once a very minimal beer belly had resided. I have been working out, but not this hard. I scared myself. Even my two-day beard was intimidating as it outlined my square jaw and blocky cheekbones, somehow pulled tight like the cheapest chuck shoulder steak.

Confused, and a little arrogant, I walked up to the counter with my swirling oil to lubricate the skids of an ungodly shift. When I set it on the counter, the girl with the red vest and name tag looked up for the first time in our consumerist history together. She was openly staring. I greeted her as I do all counter help.

"How are you doing today, ma'am?"

My delivery startled her. In truth, it frightened me as well. She stepped back a millimeter or so, but her body leaned towards me. When did my voice acquire grit? It sounded like a cellist pedaling the C with his bow too heavily rosined. What was wrong with me?

She blushed, contrasting her nose ring against pale skin flaming in a state of fiery hemoglobular bliss.

She stuttered twice and then caught her breath.

"The Mountain Dew is behind you."

"No, just the special coffee, like always."

"You don't want Mountain Dew?"

No, never touch the stuff," I was positively rumbling, "I only drink water or coffee, really. As long as the coffee is good stuff and I'm not having a good wine or something."

"But...'do the DEW!', what about that?"

"Nope, I don't like the stuff."

"Red Bull?"

"No."

"Full Throttle?"

"No."

"A Jagerbomb?"

"Hate 'em."

"Well...", she was panting, "I guess just coffee then."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much."

How could gratitude sound sinister?

I paid and stepped away from the counter. She followed me with her bloodshot and unremarkable brown eyes. A young girl walked in the door, caught my eye and tripped. The loud teenage boys at the end of the magazine aisle who began to laugh and belittle went silent with a look from me.

I looked back at my reflection.

I saw it. The change. The animal ferocity of uncaged masculinity was channeled by my sheened scalp into my distinctively broken nose to be radiated out by heavy-browed eyes. I had messed up my normal No.2 to No.3 fade with my clippers, so I slapped on a No.1/2 and went to town. It would be ugly, but it would grow back in a couple weeks, I thought.

I never anticipated the change when a person's civilization is left in pile on the bathroom rug.

I walked as unassuming as I could to my truck. The girl in the Lexus was unabashedly gazing. The man in the VW was trying not to. I began fueling the ugly beast and folded my arms as I leaned against the door. I couldn't help but arch an eyebrow.