Title - Just Another Mick?
Author - Lady Disdain
E-mail - The_Lady_Disdain@mailcity.com
Rating - G
Category - O POV (I'm addicted to that now)
Description - 
Spoilers - Implied Requiem
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully and their ensemble cast 
are owned by Fox. Characters of my own invention are 
owned by me. (Wow that even makes sense, I think.)
Author's Notes are located at the end of this story. 
Also "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" and the character of 
Francie belong the Betty Smith.
--A big thanks to Jen, Marlen and Angel-Wings for 
beta--
-----------------------------
Just Another Mick? by Lady Disdain 
<The_Lady_Disdain@mailcity.com>

 I lose nine minutes every morning on my way from my 
bedroom to the bathroom.  

 When I get up from bed its 7:35, when I get my 
toothbrush out its 7:44. This is due to the fact that 
I'm not really adept at programming my clocks.

 Originally there was only a five-minute difference 
but then I tried to 'fix' the problem several times 
and only made things worse. I have since given up and 
now reside in a time haze every morning.

 By the time I get downstairs to make myself 
breakfast I don't care about the difference between 
my room clock and the kitchen clock. I just want 
breakfast. 

 I'm the kind of person who just can't stay up past 
eleven p.m. and can't sleep longer than eight a.m. 
The fact that most of my friends get up around noon 
makes for quiet mornings. 

 At lunchtime I almost stuck a fork in the toaster. 
The gardenburger cooking directions said for a firmer 
veggie patty to toast for one minute. My burger got 
stuck in the toaster and was starting to burn so I 
reached for a fork to get it out. I realized what I 
was doing with my fork hovering an inch above my 
toaster. 

 I never cease to be amazed by my own stupidity. I'm 
blaming it on the summer heat...Never mind that I was 
indoors. Whoever thinks that rationalization must be 
rational hasn't had to explain why they almost stuck 
a fork in their toaster.

 As soon as I finished the last bite of my delicious 
burger the phone rang, it was Janine. 

 I listened while she rattled on about some guy named 
Rob who worked at a cafe downtown. Not surprisingly 
she wanted me to go to lunch with her there. I told 
her I just ate, she responded by saying that I could 
have a small salad and that she would meet me there 
at one. That's just how Janine is.

 It's amazing how people can find a way to screw up a 
salad. Rob wasn't there and Janine pouted so I 
suggested we go to the park. She likes to watch the 
pick up soccer games. Its all college guys playing 
shirts and skins, she tries to make eye contact but 
still look like she's just reading her magazine.

 So that's why I'm sitting here spending Labor Day in 
the park. I really don't mind that much, besides it 
gives me a chance to start re-reading our summer 
reading book, "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn". Janine is 
only halfway through and school starts tomorrow. But 
she's amazing at b.s.ing her way through things so 
I'm not really worried about her. 

 It just makes me wonder how she can not read it. I 
love it so much, its such a beautiful book. All the 
imagery and little stories about the people make me 
feel as if I really were living in Williamsburg at 
the turn of the century.

 I'm not kidding myself or anything, its over four 
hundred pages long, I know I'm not going to re-read 
the whole thing by tomorrow. In fact right now I'm 
just on page thirteen.

"'"I guess that's why the Jews have so many babies,"' 
Francie thought. '"And why they sit so 
quiet...waiting. And why they aren't ashamed the way 
they are fat. Each one thinks that she might be 
making the real little Jesus. That's why they walk so 
proud when they're that way. Now the Irish women 
always look so ashamed. They know that they can never 
make a Jesus. It will be just another Mick. When I 
grow up and know that I am going to have a baby, I 
will remember to walk proud and slow even though I am 
not a Jew."'"

 My head jerks up from my reading, Janine is cheering 
for the skins who just made a goal. But I keeping 
looking up around the park, another benefit of going 
to the park is I get to watch people. 

 People-watching is one of my odd little habits, I 
love to look at people and speculate what their lives 
must be like. I think you can tell a lot about a 
person from how they sit, what they carry with them, 
what they do and how they carry themselves. Someday I 
think I'll use my observations as basis for 
characters in that book I'm always meaning to write.

 I briefly sweep the park and one woman catches my 
eye, more specifically her red hair. I let my 
imagination run wild. She's definitely Irish but from 
her height I'm guessing no relationship to Conan 
O'Brien. She sits in one of the park benches across 
the sidewalk from me. She's certainly a 
businesswoman; she's got the clothes and the 
briefcase to prove it. Most likely on a late lunch 
break away from the glass towers. Usually this would 
be the closest inspection I would give someone like 
her but something about the look on her face as she 
reviews the papers in her hands make me look closer. 

  As she reaches over into her briefcase to get 
something I see it, the gentle swell of her belly. 
She's pregnant. Maybe four or five months along, I'm 
not very good at estimating these things. The sun 
shines and reflects on the cross around her neck but 
I see no ring on her left hand to catch and refract 
the light.

 It's not as if that's really unusual or anything but 
somehow I feel it's different for her. It's harder 
for her to be pregnant and single where she works. 
The stress on her face shows it.

 She slowly puts her head in her hands and I realize 
she's crying. She's come here to the park look over 
her troubles and cry because she can't let them see 
it at work. She's too strong to let them see her 
pain.

 She lifts one arm down and looks at her watch and 
beings to dry her eyes. Her lunch break must be 
over. She gathers up all the files and puts them 
neatly back in her briefcase. I look away when she 
glances around the park so see if any noticed her 
tears. She brushes off her pants and stands up 
grabbing her papers.

 She walks away slow and proud.

 Janine tugs on my sleeve, she wants to go talk to 
one of the guys. I sigh and slowly get up from my 
comfy spot under the tree and walk with her to the 
field. 
----------------------------
Notes - I'd like to dedicate this story to my buddy T 
for helping me find that quote. (I knew it was in 
there somewhere.) If anyone reading this has not read 
"A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" I suggest you do or else 
you be missing out on a wonderful novel.

Send feedback to: The_Lady_Disdain@mailcity.com
:-)




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