short story

just a random lil thing i wrote a few nights ago. still rough draft, but considering few things make it to a final draft, here it comes.

The Pedometer
There have always been random little things I’d like to do, but I don’t because I worry what people would think about me. Lately I am attaching very very little importance to the worry that some person will think I’m weird. I am weird. I’m proud of that. “the greatest art form is a life well lived” –ken kesey “all the freaky people make the beauty of the world” -michael franti

Grabbing some change out of the mall fountain is a perfect example. I need change for laundy, Here are piles of change, glistening in the water. That money belongs to anybody that values a few sideways glances at under $4.00. When I’m in a clear mood, I am that person. I’ll grab some money and giggle all the way to the candy store on the 2nd floor. I get paid to be the weird guy. I get a good story and some candy, and maybe some on-looker is inspired to be himself a little more.

However, this is one of those lessons that needs to be constantly reinforced. Every day I must relearn that I should highlight my weirdness. Reading a few quotes is a good reminder, but what really is living one, doing something strange and public, every single morning. Here’s mine.

I have about a quarter mile walk to the bus-stop. I also have a pedomoter, which is a little machine that measures how many steps you take. I love that little bastard. Carry him everywhere. Every morning I turn him on as I walk out the door. While waiting for the bus, I’d usually check to see how fast I’m walking that morning, as a measure of how tired I am. Less steps almost always mean a good mood. My record for fewest steps was 214.

One day about a month ago I left my house in a particularly good mood, and vowed to beat 200. I shattered it, tallying an impressive 182 steps. The next day I wanted to beat that. I did. Same thing the next day, and once again, another great victory.

For a week or so after that, my step count signified something entirely different than happiness. It was a confidence barometer. If I felt good about myself, I didn’t care how goofy my overzealous gait was, I just wanted to see a nice low number when I got to the bus-stop. If my mind was running slow, I subconsciously tried to fit in with the morning commuters, and walk at their same boring step-rate. On these days, I’d always reach a point where I realized how ridiculous this coping was, and vow to never do it again. One day, that vow stuck.

So now, every morning, I launch myself down my steps, and big-step my way to bus-stop. I step as big as I possibly can on every single step.

People stare. They make funny expressions and they almost get in car-accidents as their gaze lingers, waiting for some kind of meaning to my ridiculous stepping. That’s become my favorite part.

Running and jumping were ruled illegal at some point. So there haven’t been any number break-throughs in weeks. It’s been tough competion. Last week I took exactly 118 steps three out of the 5 days. I do yoga now, and I’m not ashamed to admit that a big factor in the decision to do it regularly was the promise of greater stepping ability.

I don’t really see this contest coming to an end any time soon. Every morning I big-step my way to the bust stop on St. Charles and Morengo with a smile on my face, and all day I remember the feeling of not giving a shit whether people think I’m different. I am different. I can step extremely far for my height. It’s all about when you transfer your weight.