[Read part one, if you'd like to get up to speed]
On our walk, my dog led me over to one of her favorite pooping spots; a two foot square patch of dirt and garbage adjacent to of one of the classier be-stuccoed manses of Williamsburg. She did her business. So I took a plastic bag out of my pocket and inverted it over my hand to execute the upside down bag scoop maneuver (if you have a dog, you know what I mean) preferred by fans of good hygiene and veteran dog walkers everywhere. I picked up the poop --and a large shard of glass hidden underneath-- which was discovered only after it filleted the bag and lodged itself in my finger. I shouted "Ow!" as the wounded often do, sounding off my tragicomedy:
The scene unfolded with me, one bleeding shit-smeared hand in the air (to keep it from getting all over everything), trying, with the other hand, to pick up a pile of crap with a shredded grocery bag. Meanwhile I'm being yanked to and fro by a very excited dog (my bellows set her off) who kept pitching me forward, sent my headphones flying, and caused me to repeatedly drop the crap back on the ground until it became inexorably combined with the glass. After this scene played itself out for awhile it became clear I was in a losing struggle; the bag was useless, and my finger needed attention. I had to come up with a plan B. I saw a trash bin a few feet away, and figured I might have luck finding something in it (a flyer, a coffee cup) I could scoop the glass/crap into and get home.
When I stood I felt a gaze. I turned and locked eyes with this sour-pussed old man relaxing in a lawn chair not two feet behind me--watching the whole thing. But instead of becoming enraged that at no point did he offer to help me; I gave him the benefit of the doubt, assumed he was possibly infirm, that he couldn't. I took two steps toward the trash bin I intended to inspect, when he yelled, "Hey!" I stopped, turned back toward him.
He looked at my face, then my bloody hand, then back at my face. And it occurred to me that maybe he hadn't seen what happened, the bag ripping, the glass. Maybe he had been focused on something else --I don't know, daydreaming about the summer of '42 when he dated that Sophia Lauren look-alike from Palermo-- while I was flailing around on the ground, bleeding finger suspended over my head, yelping in pain. Maybe he was otherwise engaged; two feet away. Maybe when I stood he noticed the mangled plastic sheet and trickle of blood, the agitated dog, my furrowed brow, and had put the two and two together of what had happened, was stopping me to ask if I was alright, if I needed help. How sweet.
But of course that wasn't the case. "You can't leave that there," he said, pointing to the poop.
"You can't be serious." I said, shaking my head, holding my gashed finger out in case he didn't catch the part where I was bleeding.
"I'm very serious, honey. Don't leave your dog shit on my sidewalk." His face never changed, same sour puss as ever. Not even when he leaned in to inspect my hand (ass).
"Well as you can see, I can't use this bag, " I held up what remained of it, "because it was shredded by the glass on your sidewalk." With that his face changed for the first time. An eyebrow raised, a millimeter. "Do you have a bag I could use?"
"No."
"How about a band-aid?"
"No."
So I walked over to the trash bin, the old man leaned forward on his chair to superintend. (Lord knows I might try to make a run for it and pull off the fucking crime of the century.) I was happy to find a nice, clean newspaper right on top. I grabbed it, walked back over to the dirt square, scooped up the poo/glass, and threw it back in the garbage. I decided to keep going, walk the long way around the block, primarily to avoid the jail time that would undoubtedly be the result of any further contact with Mr. Empathy. Not three steps toward home, freedom, Neosporin, what time is it? noon? and wine, yes wine, he yells, "HEY! HONEY! Who said you could use my newspaper?"
Posted by Antigeist at April 23, 2004 02:32 PMAsshole.
What is it with the old men in our neighborhood with the sidewalk lounging and the lawnchairs? I'll give him a freakin' newspaper. And a slap. Let's get drunk and beat his ass.
Posted by: z. at April 23, 2004 02:58 PMWhen I relayed the story to G, he said, "Look at the bright side. Imagine what it's like to be such a bitter old man, hating everything and everyone. What an awful life."
Sage? Sure. But come the fuck on! I have no sympathy for anyone whose personal prejudices cloud their capacity for compassion, in any situation.
It reminds of another story: I witnessed a house fire once, a blast of flame that had engulfed the home so quickly, it was beyond the point of saving anyone or anything inside by the time the firemen had arrived. A group of neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk across the street, each in awe and terror of what was happening. Except for one old woman, maybe 90, who turned to me and said, "That's what you get for being a smoker."
Posted by: antigeist at April 23, 2004 03:26 PMThere's gotta be some kind of liberation in being that bitter. If you can loosen your give-a-damn muscles to the point where you can, say, nag dying burn victims about their smoking habits or yell at shit-covered bleeders (no offense), then... maybe there's a kind of peace to be found in that bottomless pool of geriatric spite.
May we never find out for sure.
Posted by: Chico at April 26, 2004 12:29 PMChico-- I know what you mean. Zeeb and I were talking about that last Friday. As pissed as I was at the guy, I had to admit I was looking forward to losing my edit button. It has to be liberating on some level.
As liberating as it was to get drunk and beat the snot out of him. (Right Zeeb? heh.)
Posted by: antigeist at April 26, 2004 12:42 PM