Monthly Archives for November 2014

Instant Buggy Karma

Grocery Cart

So as I’m walking back to my car the other night, I see this young couple getting in their car. Dude gets in his side and their car cranks up. That’s when I notice he’s left the buggy right next to his car like myriads of other douchebags who can’t at least run it up on a nearby median or something. They finish with their groceries and don’t even bother to look around for the buggy corral.

I’m stopped about 15 feet from their bumper, and openly watching them. I’m watching because this guy has topped all the other douchebags who do this. He was too lazy to move the buggy away from his car. The car-buggy gap was only two inches. I was parked to the right of him, so I had an excuse for standing their waiting. Sure enough, when he starts to back up, his car slides against the buggy, which catches on the back door of his car and gets dragged a foot or two. He looks at me with a stupid ‘aww-shucks’ smile. “Shit,” he proclaims, in what I imagine is a daily mantra for him.

My first impulse, even in this situation, is to help. To grab the buggy for the idiot. And although I can’t be certain, I think for a split second he was thinking the same thing. Maybe this complete stranger will come take care of this for me if I wait long enough. I stand still and smile back at him. He stops the car, and since the buggy is now next to his door, he has to carefully edge out of the driver’s door so as not to scrape it on the buggy. I begin walking to my car now as he grabs the buggy and takes it to the corral that is, are you ready for this, in the parking space directly opposite him. I hold back when I start to shout “INSTANT BUGGY KARMA!”

He’s only one ladder rung away from the people who pour drinks out next to their cars. Sticky veneers of high-fructose corn syrup and caffeine just waiting to make every step I take though a store a duct-tape ripping noise. And those shmucks at the very bottom; people who leave diapers in the buggies. This is especially disturbing because you know the Walmart employees don’t do anything but pull it out with a stick or something. Then you wonder in and set little Sarah down in the turd buggy.

These are the same people that drop their screaming kids off at the three dollar movies for five hours on Saturday night. Whose houses burn down because their Christmas tree was still lying in the corner in March. Who pee on toilet seats. Who watch the same channel for six hours straight because they left the remote on top of the TV (Okay, I’ve done that, but only a couple of times. It’s not a habit.).

I’m so irritated by all this I can hardly think. I stand next to my car and take special care to aim my urine directly into the drain below, being careful not to splatter, then drive home, trying not to think about all the idiots in the world.

Husk

colorful leaves

Sal picked up the acorn from the leaves. The boy watched. Sal stared at the little nut for a moment like a bug under a microscope.

“That an acorn?” the boy asked.

“Yep.”

“What tree is it from?”

Sal said, “Oak.”

The boy and the man walked slowly through the edge of the yard, shuffling their boots amongst the scattering Autumn leaves. Every now and then, the boy would spot a tiny branch sticking up out of the brightly colored detritus and pick it up, snapping off little pieces and redistributing them back to the forest floor.

“Can we plant it?” the boy asked.

Sal was silent for a moment, as if it took a massive amount of mental calculations to figure out whether you could cover this particular seed with dirt.

“You know,” Sal finally answered, “All the information needed to turn this small nut into a huge tree and keep it alive and flourishing for the next one hundred years is right here inside this small little shell.”

The child was about to repeat his question when he thought better of it. When adults got like this, it was better to let them ramble on until they were done.

Sal said, “I wonder if it has any notions, as it’s growing, that it has any say in what kind of tree it’s going to become?”

Sal trailed off for another unquantifiable moment.

The boy watched Sal turn the acorn over and over with his leathery, crinkled hands.

“If we don’t plant it,” the boy said matter-of-factly, “we’ll never know.”

He didn’t think this answered Sal’s question, but then again Sal hadn’t answered his question either and the boy had an agenda, after all. If they planted it now, by the time he was his brother’s age, and allowed to climb trees like his brother, he should have a huge tree to climb back in his own yard. In the boy’s subdivision, the developers had killed all but a few trees before they built their houses. The boy figured the trees got in the way somehow. It was the boy’s turn to ponder things now.

“So even though it’s not doing anything right now, it’s alive in there?”

“Yep.”

“But you have to put it in the dirt and water to grow it . . . or it just . . .”

The boy wasn’t sure. How long could whatever was in there live if you didn’t plant it?

Sal said, “It dies. You can’t tell from the outside, not right away, but it just dries up on the inside.”

Then he suddenly handed the seed to the boy as if he’d wanted nothing to do with it in the first place.

The Creep

happy devil

In the past month or so I’ve managed to be the most insulting, racist, and creepiest person I’ve ever been in my life.

The Creepy incident was at a sandwich shop. I was ordering and something was mentioned that I didn’t like, so I said,”Eewww, no. That’s nasty.” And then, because I think of things all the time that sound witty in my head, but come out like a spastic with Tourette’s, I say with a knowing smile, “The only nasty thing I like is a nasty groove.” For those of you as old as me, you probably got the Janette Jackson reference without hesitation. That’s when I realized that the girl in front of me was lower 20s at most. The look on her face had turned from Can I help you, sir to Am I safe now, even with people around? I felt like Ron Jeremy must feel all the time. I was, for the moment, the creepiest guy on the planet. Before she could press the panic button, I dug my way out of this one by acknowledging my failed attempt at humor and explaining the song. Luckily, my wife was with me to reassure the girl that I was safe while off my leash. I followed up by pointing out the name of the singer who was currently belting out I want to party all the time, party all the time, party all the tiiiiiime. That earned me some 80s cred.

But that wasn’t horrible enough, my subconscious thought. Surely you can take it to the next level. So I did.

Me and the crew were outside a Wal-Mart. Where this one is located, there is always someone outside with a sign. I always give something. Money, food, something. And most of the time, the people standing out there look the part. A little worn and scraggly. Their dress and the wrinkles in their face reflect their hard times. Not this fellow. He was maybe 19 or 20. Same age as my boy. He looked well kempt, but really down. Really down. We pull up and roll our window down. He hesitantly eases forward and as I’m reaching in my pocket (it’s hard for fat people to get things out of our pockets when we’re in our vehicles), I look up into his downcast eyes and say, because it’s reflex and I say it to everyone I meet automatically, “How’s it going man?”

That’s right. I asked a kid who might be homeless and destitute how it was going. I guess I could have followed up by slashing his arms with my pocket knife and sprinkling some salt in the wounds, or maybe running over his foot when I pulled off. I didn’t even realize what I had said until after I pulled off. I went low for a minute. Really low. I’m sure that if there are events in our lives that might send us straight to Purgatory when we die, I just earned myself a couple hundred years there. Then, because it was so horrible and there was nothing I could do about it, I began to laugh hysterically at myself. Because I’m a horrible person.

That was next level, sure. But was it worthy of a trophy from Hades? No. I had to one up that. I had to climb to the summit of Mount Horrible and pledge my soul directly to the God of Shame.

A few weeks later, the wife and I are doing the yard sale thing. We stop at one that’s half in and half out of a garage. I walk into the garage and a lady to my left exclaims loudly that, “Everything in this room is for sale!” Since I’m a smartass who overanalyzes everything, I immediately notice that she herself is in the room, so without thinking, I blurt out, “So are you for sale?”

Then it hits me . . . she’s black.

That’s right. I just asked a black woman if I could purchase her. I’m in Alabama. I’m white. I would normally immediately point out how racist that sounded and make a joke about how oblivious and aloof I am. But I am too flummoxed this time. I’m waiting for this woman to put me in my place. I’m speechless. As I stood there with my mouth open and eyes wide, I might have drooled a little on the concrete. I still don’t know whether she caught it herself, because she says, “Oh, no. My husband wouldn’t like that at all.”

I am blubbering. Can’t mind working not think doodoo duh. I hear myself say, “Oh, he’d probably pay a lot of money to get you back.” Okay, now I’m just saying stupid shit and I can’t stop. I continue to move robotically around the garage and then make for the car. As I leave, she calls out behind me, “Didn’t see anything you wanted to buy?” I don’t know if she is screwing with me now, or just trying to sale stuff and oblivious of social faux pas. “No mam. Thank you. Have a good day today.” I get in the car and look in the rearview mirror to see if a swastika has spontaneously formed on my forehead.

I am paranoid now. Moving cautiously through each day, fearful that I’m going to accidentally knock some kid out of their wheelchair or run over someone’s new puppy on the way to work. Please, if you see me out, know that I am a good person. Hold your children closer, yes, but know that I mean well.