Repost of Something Fine

I wrote this a couple years ago and just found it, and I can't say whether it's good or not, but it surely exemplifies the string of firecrackers going off in my head when I'm tired and ready to sleep but the brain won't slow down.
=0=0=0=0=0=0=0=0=

Last night while driving home, I get to a 4-way intersection. A guy is crossing my right-to-left, and the cross-traffic is stopping. Pedestrian Joe has gotten the Red Right Hand light, but he keeps a-going as though he owns the intersection. I've seen him pee on a lamppost there before, so maybe he does.

Anyway, the traffic coming at me gets the green light, but they have to stop so that he can get all the way across. It's only one car coming my way, but PJ just... keeps hobbling along. Yes, hobbling. He was on crutches, did I mention that? And in a walking boot. And my only thought was "Dude, you need to get your timing down better."

So here's my dilemma. The guy's on crutches and in a boot, just heading to a local store for some refreshingments. He's got no backpack so he's swinging a bag of whatever he fancies, moving slowly... slowly... as he crutches, steps... crutches, steps... Not fully using the crutches to effectively double his stride-length. It's 11:15 at night. Where's the car? Why is he on foot? Do I have any compassion? When should I, or anyone, just roll down the window and say "GET THE F*CK OUT OF THE STREET. GOD BLESS," and mean both of them equally.

I figure it one of two ways: This guy was a cybernaut from the year 2007, when cars are outlawed, our minds wiped clean of their existence and operation, and only the royals shall use walking implements, slowly.

Or he's some guy who fell of a scaffold at the day-labor job, building another Starbucks in a stripmall, working to supplement the payments for his medication he has to take so his renal system doesn't fail. He can't afford to go through the court system for a settlement because his ex-wife, who took the car and the camper in the divorce before blowing his brother at Christmas dinner... at the table... she's gonna find out about the money and come after it.
So he takes a cash settlement, under the table, 1/10th of what he could probably get from the contractor, the scaffold maker, and the college kid he works with who keeps taking his wife beater off and drinking PowerAde and left the grinder that caused Crutches to fall across the boards. All he's got is his mangled ankle, a 3-pack of Winstons, and enough beer to make it through the weekend in a one-bedroom, no women, no music, no Living in sight, and I shouldn't take that from him.

Or he's got 6 DUIs in 3 years, used to beat his wife before she took the kids and smashed his foot with his Pontiac, shortly before she ghost-drove it off a cliff onto the tent where his brother's been taking Chinese immigrants for immoral acts.

Anyway, if another pointless, rambling, drunken, selfish, disjointed headcase crosses my path, they best be smiling and walking with the signal. My accelerator's starting to stick.

=0=0=0=0=0=

Amazing how you can still feel the same way after all this time...


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad