Adjacency
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Observed and overheard: three unrelated arguments in favor of showing up early (and then just letting things unfold).
Undone
I arrived a few minutes before the bell and noticed the septic truck immediately; its hose snaked down from a second-floor window, expanding and contracting as if in a cartoon. The smell, even from across the street, was atrocious. I pulled my shirt up over my face and waited for the school day to end.
At 3:15, the rumble of feet preceded a thwack of double doors flinging open across the building's facade. An explosion—a cacophony—a crescendo; hundreds of middle schoolers thundered outside as if escaping the apocalypse itself. They fake-barfed and wretched, the larger ones pushed the smaller ones out of the way in pursuit of fresh air. “IT SMELLS LIKE POOP!” they screamed in refrain, some falling to the ground as others clawed at their own eyes and faces. Gasping and flushed, they were simultaneously experiencing the most horrific and exciting event of their young lives (and perhaps of mine, as well).
After a few moments of dramaturgical undoing, they tired of the bit—or maybe just collectively realized they were prolonging their time in The Smell. Backpacks were straightened and waistbands pulled upwards; the big kids helped the little ones up before boarding buses or otherwise dispersing along their usual routes. My niece walked over to meet me on our agreed-upon corner. “How was school?” I asked. “It was gross,” she replied. “I get it,” I said, and we went off into our afternoon.
Doyennes
They were both playing very nice, but something had once happened between them—or perhaps they didn’t know each other well at all, and were instead connected by some singular but unspoken point of contention. I’ll never know. I did know I was thrilled their tête-a-tête was taking place three inches from the back of my head while waiting for the reading to begin.
There seemed to be a good number of people there who knew Susan Orlean personally, which was unsurprising considering that she was a journalist, and this was Washington, DC. That contingent had congregated towards the front, whereas I’d taken a folding chair a few rows back and on the aisle. Based on this seating arrangement, the woman behind me was not on a first-name basis with the author either, but soon one of the gaggle peeled off, barely smiling, to greet her. To not say hello seemed out of the question, and yet it was immediately apparent that they had some tiny, elegant beef. An Orlean-off began.
The one who knew the author had the advantage, but they vied for power regardless. After an athletic back-and-forth about their current neighborhoods, Beta wielded a close, personal friendship with “Holland” (Holland Taylor, naturally, which she effortlessly and elegantly extrapolated upon). Holland was great friends with Susan. Alpha neither blinked nor demurred during the cavernous pause for reaction, responding instead with a polite “Mmmhmmm.” Any potential gains were fumbled when Beta tried to fill the silence, asking if Susan was still at The New Yorker? Alpha easily maintained the upper hand. “Well of course," she sniffed, “That’s Susan’s writing home.” Her writing “home?” I was on no one’s side, but you have to admit that’s kind of an assh-le way to phrase it.
Susan Orlean arrived and the two women parted ways with a crisp politeness; no promises were made to stay in touch or catch up at a later date. The whole encounter was so rife with ~unknown dynamics~ that a certain glamour had begun to unfold; I didn’t let the fact that they were both wearing the World’s Most Sensible Sweaters and Also Shoes if We’re Being Honest destroy the energy, and I was high as a kite for the next 30 minutes.
Audiology
My algorithm had skewed toward grotesque ear wax removals, and—imagining the potential horrors of my own situation—I made an appointment with an audiologist for a cleaning. The morning of, I arrived before opening hours to fill out the requisite forms, then took a seat in the waiting room.
A few minutes before 9am, a door whined open somewhere towards the back of the building, followed by the clear, booming voice of a man on the phone. Booming as in sonically, as if he were explaining the rules of kickball to three middle-school gym classes at once. “Lemme ask you this: At any point did you wish you had a firearm instead of bear spray?” My head snapped up from my clipboard. “Even a 9mm, just to scare him off?” I looked around to see if this was registering with anyone else, then remembered where I was, and that it probably was not. “I mean, he’s the apex predator, to him you’re just a deer. If you surprise him…that’s his territory.”
He said his goodbyes at nine on the dot, then made his way to the glass window of the reception desk. He looked exactly as I imagined (like he drove a Dodge Ram). With zero adjustment to volume and clarity, he proceeded to help an older gentleman with his malfunctioning hearing aid, and I realized two things in quick succession: One, the man was nothing if not born for this profession, and two, he in no way required a 9mm while hiking, as he was completely, sonic-boomingly incapable of surprising a bear—or anyone else—in their natural habitat.
Whether I arrived in this condition or his voice had served as a shockwave to break up blockage, my ear canals were completely clear. I paid $35 for the out-of-pocket visit and whispered “thank you” on the way out.
“Adjacency” emailed out 2.3.2026 with newsletter-exclusive extras. Subscribe here.