Springfield, Missouri.

There is a set of tasseled shoes sitting in the row behind me chastising someone on the other end of his phone call. The person happens to be named Amy. In general, it’s a bit odd meeting someone with your same name. Listening to someone discipline an unknown version of you is even more towards unsettling.

“You need to dress appropriately for work- AMY.”
“No more holes in your jeans- AMY.”

He leaves a distinct pause before including my name at the end of each sentence, raising his voice just a bit which is starting to make me think he might actually be speaking to me. I slump a little in my chair, transforming back into fifth grade, avoiding eye contact in attempts not to be called on.

“No tennis shoes to work- AMY.”

I can’t help but analyze my apparel in terms of my working conditions. But, strangely enough, the items he is suggesting I wear, the A-line skirt, and business suit, would be some of the few options deemed inappropriate for my work setting of national parks and shop parking lots. I imagine changing cables and cleaning chains in a tight fitting vest over a collared dress shirt. Nylons. Heels.

I feel myself sinking into But Mom... statements. I’m suddenly ashamed of the hole in the top layer of fabric covering my slip on shoes. I brush the dirt off of the bottom of my pant leg before tucking my feet underneath my chair.

“No, AMY. Not anymore. No.”

I’m picturing the mounting process involved in standing in front of a road bike while wearing a form fitting knee length skirt. I’m thinking of the footwear and outfit necessities needed to hide any visible tattoos, when his phone call suddenly ends.

He curses, pulling the phone away, and walks closer towards the window on my left in attempts to gain service. Nothing. He turns to me,

“Do you have any change for a dollar? I need to use the pay phone.” He then turns to his cell phone and shakes his head, shrugging. “Kids, you know? When will they learn?”

I laugh awkwardly and nod, handing over the change from my pocket.