The Size of Your Life

Ask someone what time it is in a British accent. Submitted by David Greenberger.

Me: 'ello, do you 'ave the time?
Guy at the deli: Um, yes. It's almost 1:30.
Me: Ta.

Ask someone what time it is in a southern accent. Submitted by David Greenberger.

Me: What tahm is it, please?
Lady at Associated Grocery Store: 1:45.
Me: Thahnk yoo, Ma'am. I just love these northern grocery stores y'all have.
Lady: (raises eyebrows but says nothing)

It's funny. Every time I try to say something in any accent, it almost always comes out sounding at least a little bit Russian. This is likely because my old roommate and I spoke to each other almost exclusively in Russian accents for about six months. It is, even now, unspoken as to why we did that, and why it lasted so long. He would come home from work every night and turn Russian and demand, "What you are making for deen-er?" and I would instantly turn Russian and reply with something like "Tonight I am making for us burgers" or "why you are never cooking for me instead?". Even now, if I try to imitate Trace, the bartender down the street, who's from Wales, or my Yemeni doctor, or a snooty French accent, someone invariably says, "you sound Russian."

Follow a squirrel around. Submitted by Chris.

I find a friendly squirrel on second street. He walks towards me on a metal gate until he's right in front of me. I can see his whiskers quivering. But when it becomes apparent that I don't have anything to feed him, he runs out onto the sidwalk. I follow him. He runs up a stoop. I wait. Someone's put a bunch of free stuff out on their stoop. I take a little wire basket, thinking, it will be perfect for the rulers in my classroom. Someone has dropped part of an ice cream cone on the ground and the ants are in heaven. The squirrel races up a tree trunk. I squint up at him for a while until it's too bright to look anymore and realize that there's a little girl standing next to me, looking at me looking up. "What?" she says, pointing up to the sky. "Just a squirrel," I say, smiling.

Get a malt. Submitted by Ivan. Aie nako!

I wander down to Louie G's for a strawberry malt. The afternoon light is different than it was a few weeks ago. Muted and paler. It's not very close yet, but fall is looming somewhere, and I can't wait. I'm daydreaming along, thinking that malts are one of the best inventions of all time, and wondering who left a bra next to the mailbox on the corner of Union Street, when I see Mr. Key up ahead, for the first time in days. He's sitting on his favorite benches, with his cane, outside the coffee shop. I walk up to him, and he turns to see what's caused the sudden shade. "Hello," I say. "Hello, he says. His voice is always quiet, and a bit melodical. I sit down next to him.

TO BE CONTINUED

*This update typed while listening to workmen hammering in the new restaurant downstairs (it's almost done!) and a Snow Patrol album.