I woke up at 2 a.m., an instant awakening, one flush with a weird sense of foreboding. Güino lay next to me. I checked the apartment, then my phone. Nothing was amiss. The feeling that something sinister had transpired wouldn’t dissipate.
Instead of preoccupation, I chose to put on my shoes and walk. The early morning was a blessing as I moved. The night was quiet. Even traffic, usually dormant at that hour, was more so and devoid of travelers. The roads were mine to traverse.
My mind was calm, but memories and thoughts flowed effortlessly as I walked. Nothing noteworthy happened as the minutes passed. Just me and my thoughts.
It felt like meditation.
It felt like peace.
Arriving back at the apartment and making myself a cup of coffee, I sat at the computer and Güino jumped to my lap for morning appreciation and cuddles.
Whatever unseen force that awakened me still echoed as an almost tangible sensation in my head. Even if I couldn’t perceive anything out of place, I knew that somewhere, someone was experiencing life differently. It’s the way of the world, a constant battle of chaos, energy, and circumstance.
It felt like peace.
It was meditation.
I knew I had to start my routine, the one that cements me into the world of normalcy. And so it begins, this day, two hours already racing past, never to be recaptured.
As I was chalking up a sidewalk, a woman approached. I could tell she had something to say. She didn’t have a Karen name badge on but it was definitely her spirit animal.
“It’s a crime to use chalk on sidewalks,” she informed me. The tone of her voice was that of an indignant school marm from the 1800s.
I’m not proud that my sense of humor and the snark that overcame me. But I am giggling.
“The only real crime here is that you think those shoes go with those pants. As for the chalk, I will let children everywhere know that they are felons if they get out the sidewalk chalk.”
She snorted in disgust.
I wrote underneath my message and drawing: “Karen disapproves of this message.”
I will bet $100 she comes back in a few minutes and erases some or all of my beautiful artwork with her foot. Or perhaps her forked tongue.
Honestly, I’m glad she was snarky and mean. I get really tired of people being happy and tickled by me doing this.
Look what Marilyn and Larry sent me! I guess I know my new role and responsibility for today. I’m wondering if I should WEAR the cape and mask today? Tuesdays need a superhero. I’ll go find some miscreants as soon as I leave the apartment.
Thanks, Marilyn, I got a great laugh – and felt appreciated for this surprise gift.
I’m reluctant to share this one. While my heart was in the right place, I felt a flare of righteous anger. That type of anger feels right at the moment but often sours with consequences. I am not a hero in this story.
About two weeks ago, I was driving about 35 mph in a way that made me feel alive. Music high, smiling. Not in a hurry.
Her green sedan pulled alongside me in the lane to my left.
She held her phone, crying.
Her black hair reached her shoulders.
She tossed her phone in the passenger seat.
And unexpectedly looked toward me.
Tears on her face.
She nodded and wiped her eyes with a sleeve.
I let off the gas, and she raced away.
Five minutes later, I pulled into the lot.
And saw the green sedan there.
Life reminds me there aren’t many coincidences.
As I parked, I noted she was next to the store.
Cigarette in hand, nervous.
I watched a man pull up and exit his truck angrily.
He hissed at her in a way I couldn’t hear.
She flinched and looked down to the ground. Because of my childhood, I saw the backstory written plain. I already knew what her private life was like. This wasn’t the first time, nor the tenth.
The man gesticulated and shook.
Without thinking, I walked toward them.
“How are you?” I asked her.
She looked at me in surprise.
The man interrupted, “Who are you?”
I replied, “I am the man just in time.”
“For what?” He hissed at me.
“To do what I need to.” The anger flared in me.
I prayed he’d move toward me.
I walked to his truck and opened the driver’s door. “Get the eff out of here, sir.” I smiled like a predator. I admit that it felt good. I’m not sure what that says about me.
The woman watched, fearful of what her man might do.
She should have feared what I might do.
A man in Canada filled my head, his volatile narcissism unchecked, his multiple victims attempting to regain normal lives in his wake. The law does nothing to aggressively meet the abuser’s behavior in kind, even though that is what is needed. Another man was using his long familiarity with control and emotional abuse to impoverish his fleeing wife. Both honestly deserve a measured dose of Southern Justice. This might be my surrogate, one to catch my vengeance. I hoped so. Waiting for ‘someone’ to help might lead to never. I’d felt the burn inflaming me for some time.
“Get home in ten or else,” he told the woman.
“She won’t be there in 10. Or 60. Go.”
He paced around me and pretended to lunge as he did. I didn’t flinch. Ninety percent of all aggression fails to materialize. Had the ten percent emerged, Bobby Dean laid in wait, anesthetized against anything except immobilizing pain. I wanted him to lunge and make contact. The law allows us to defend someone else. If it penalizes me for acting on impulse, that’s fair.
He got in the truck, slammed the door, and roared away. He put down his window momentarily and shouted the redneck equivalent of whatever angry, stupid people say. I laughed purposefully and ignored him.
The woman cried again.
“You know what you need to do,” I told her. “Today, before it’s too late. Do you have someone to go to?”
She nodded.
“Go there. And don’t go back to that. Do you need anything?”
“No,” she murmured.
“Go now in case he comes back.”
I didn’t enter the store.
I watched the black-haired woman get in her car and depart.
I saw a green car today and wondered if the woman was safe. And I wondered who the man’s next victim might be. That there will be is a certainty. I hope there’s a future me waiting for him. It’s evident that I will pull the curtain back and summon Bobby Dean.
My idle pacifist hands are anxious in an unexpected way.
Days later, I’m still thinking about how close I had to get to really hurting someone. And how the realization that the same Bobby Dean inside me was as guilty of the same misbehavior as the man was with his wife or girlfriend. He was a chronic abuser; ironically, I can channel that same energy to obliterate my doubts and step in on the other side of the situation.
There are no easy answers. But I do know that sometimes raw anger is appropriate. Sometimes it’s the only way. It’s not right, proper, or even intelligent. A lot of men need to spit blood to learn their lesson. And some men, men like me, ones who earned their abuse badges when younger, probably need to be more willing to violently be the one to administer a reminder.
PS I know that we’re supposed to call the police. But I also know that they constantly fail to protect people. The law exists to inhibit behavior, but it often does not remedy the need for immediacy. A few weeks after my surgery, I got a reminder of how precarious the idea of safety can be. The flare that lit inside me of me hasn’t abated. As I said, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about this admission.
“There is no finish line. Which makes me wish I’d brought toilet paper.” – The Internet
I haven’t been running much. Not even when chased. When I have, I’ve limited myself to one mile, usually at a ridiculous pace, or sprinting up stairs until I couldn’t feel my face. Weeks ago, I gave it everything I had in an attempt to run a sub-6 minute mile and missed by a few seconds. Today, because I’m stupid, I gave it one more shot: I thought for certain I had failed again. To my surprise, I finished in five minutes and forty-nine seconds. I’m glad – because it allows me to cross this nonsense off my list! I’m going back to running-walking. The good news is that new research reinforces what we already suspected: there is a ‘sweet spot’ for exercise. Beyond that point, it turns out that you actually reduce your life expectancy instead of increasing it. I’m pretty sure my life flashed in front of my eyes at about five minutes. Everything in moderation – even chocolate chip cookies or peanut cluster bites. But at least I can say I did it once as a 54-year old.
“Running your mouth doesn’t count as cardio.” But it should. I’d be a marathoner for sure. .
As I predicted, today was phenomenal. It got even better when the headphones I bought with Sam’s club points arrived. Along with my yellow shirt. Someone at work told me I needed a yellow shirt to go with black pants so I could look like a bumblebee. It seemed reasonable, like climbing a 70 ft tall tree in February. I saw the world from a different perspective up there. Don’t worry ~ I have insurance. Both life and health for that matter. It’s been 5 months since my surgery. Go ahead, ask me if I’m happy. I try to imagine what life would be like if everyday were this sublime. .
The scammer leaned against the brick facade of the inconvenience store as I pulled up. Luckily, someone distracted him as I exited my car. On the way out, though, I made the mistake of eye contact. As he began his elaborate and well-rehearsed story, I listened attentively.
“What do you need the money for?” I asked him, smiling.
“A room, as I said.” He paused.
“I’ll give you $50 for your headphones. Will that help?” His headphones were worth as much as two of my car payments.
He smiled broadly. “Okay, you got me there.”
I laughed. “I tell you what. IF you tell me an interesting story, I’ll give you all the cash I have, $8. Is that fair? Just make it a true story.”
He thought about it a second. “Ooh! That’s easy. For $8, I can tell you ten great stories.”
I leaned against the brick facade next to him. “Hit me, dude.”
Here’s what he told me:
“Back a few years ago, I was in Nashville to scam my way into the VIP area at a private concert. I managed to get inside, of course, insisting I was the sound engineer for the band. I’ve met Nelly, 50 Cent, and a few others doing that. After about an hour, a few of the entourage went to a private bar nearby. Everyone was doing drugs. Even the waitstaff. I like to smoke but I wouldn’t touch the stuff they were using. I’d grabbed at least twenty joints from the little case one of the entourage had and stuffed them in my pocket. After a few minutes, a couple of men entered the main room, and one of them shouted, “Police. Everyone stay put. You are all being detained.” I ducked down to the floor, hoping I hadn’t been seen. I crawled around the bar and crouched low. I pulled out a case of wine from underneath and quickly yanked a couple of bottles out and put them on the floor. I could hear the mayhem on the other side as people were frisked and handcuffed. One of the detectives walked around the bar and saw me there. I looked up at him and nodded, and kept pulling wine bottles out of the case. The detective assumed I must have worked for the bar as he nodded back and walked past me. After a few seconds of that, I stood up and lifted the case of wine to the bartop. Everyone was sitting at tables, most of them cuffed. I kept pulling bottles out and putting them on the bar. This went on for a few minutes. Because of the confusion, I then started putting full bottles of the good vodka, whiskey, and gin in the wine case. When I had it full, I waited for the detective who’d seen me on the floor to look in my direction. I pointed to the case and then toward the back storage area. The detective nodded. I picked up the case of liquor and headed through the storage area. There was a plainclothes cop at the back door. He assumed I had been waved through because he didn’t stop me as I strolled past with my stolen case of goods. I walked out of there, laughing. I sold the liquor for $250. I shared the joints with my friend who was in Nashville with me. We got so high we could barely walk.”
I laughed. “That is a good story!”
“I learned that if you act natural, a lot of times you’ll skate by. And be polite, no matter what. I got caught with an unbelievable amount of pot in Atlanta one time. Enough to smoke up an auditorium full of people. When he asked me what it was for, I told him the truth, that it was to get higher than a kite for about a month. It wasn’t true, no one could smoke THAT much pot in a month. But he laughed and told me to be more careful about driving around with that much at one time. “I get a bulk discount though,” I told him. I think he was just caught off guard by how nonchalant I was about it.”
“Here’s your $8. Thanks for the story.”
As I went to get into my car, he quipped, “Are you sure you don’t smoke? That car color screams “high as-f” to me.”
“You’re right. On the other hand, those shoes you have on bring up an entire litany of questions.”
He was surprised as he looked down at his shoes.
He laughed. “You got me.”
“Offer to tell a story for money. You might make a lot more money.” He nodded.
I woke up at 3 a.m. to a snow moon this morning. I didn’t know until today that it’s called that thanks to Native Americans. The white billowy clouds moved across the sky rapidly and the wind created silhouettes of witch fingers across the parking long as the bare limbs danced and swayed. Güino gleefully ran outside and across the landing, enjoying the 59 degrees of the February morning. I walked down the landing in my bathrobe, waving at the neighbor’s security cameras, in an attempt to corral him back toward home. Since I had to do a metabolism test this morning, I tried to summon the spit demons to produce enough to fill a vial that seemed larger than a beer stein. And then, in the ultimate act of self-amusement, I jabbed myself with the needle to produce enough blood for a blood sample; this resulted inadvertently in enough blood to mimic an impromptu crime scene. The downstairs neighbors had to hear me laughing like a fool up here.
I’m enjoying a bitter cup of coffee, one made so strong that it might melt through the cup. As the minutes fly by and music plays softly on Alexa and Güino sits on my lap as I type, I realize that it’s a beautiful morning, a perfect one, to start the day. I’m going to laugh a lot today, get some sublime hugs, and wonder about the surprising ways that life still sneaks up on me with lemon moments. Whatever I had envisioned for myself in the previous months, this is a morning that’s difficult to complain about.
Güino agrees and purrs as I finish this.
I’m ready for the day. I hope it’s ready for me, too.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 