On the way home today, I followed my instincts and pulled over somewhere I had not yet walked, a place not aligned with pruned trails nor convenient walking. I left my car parked in a place better suited for vertigo-afflicted mountain goats and started walking. Most of the road was built without regard for humans; vehicles were the intended possessor of the asphalt strips I chose today. I knew that off in the distance as I reached an affluent area, the sidewalks would magically appear. It’s strange that it is more likely that roads will have sidewalks in the very neighborhoods where people seldom use them and yet, among those who are in need, they are absent like one’s written family tree at a reunion. I decided that if a vehicle didn’t wish to move slightly over as I walked, that I would fling myself into the thorny underbrush in deference to their overwhelming mass.

As I reached the immaculately-maintained area of the Cleverly Hillbillies, I heard voices tinged with venom. Two voices went from indistinct to perfect diction after about twenty steps. It was apparent that they were sitting in the unseen backyard of their property, oblivious to the world outside. The neighborhood is one of those with an elaborate stone and brick wall, one reaching 8 or 9 feet high. I think that perhaps those two people arguing beyond the great stone wall near the Italian-villa neighborhood would be embarrassed to know that I could hear the intimate and complex shadings of their traded barbs. It seems as if this million-dollar wall somehow had failed to provide the promised happiness they sought when they were younger. I shouldn’t judge because I can’t know for certain that this type of argument isn’t routine and that the verbal daggers I was hearing were imaginary. My experience tells me, however, that this verbal duel was both routine and viciously new. I wish they would sell their mansion and argue on a beach. At the least, the sand in their feet would overlook a new perspective, even if they still turned toward one another to punch each other verbally.

I briefly considered yelling, “Shut up! You’re rich but you sound like my neighbors, the ones who can’t even afford a trip to Bethel Heights.” I very much wanted to match faces to the disembodied voices wafting from over the tall wall. I took a golf pencil from my pocket and made a small “X” on the gray stone of the nearest vertical column holding the immense structure vertical. I did so because it occurred to me that I could then return and use the address on the other side to discern names, then faces, then details of their lives. Being modern people, I had no doubt that much of the superficial nature of their lives would reveal itself to me. While they might have their privacy settings on social media locked to prevent unwanted eyes, they had forgotten that beyond their high wall, the one purportedly providing security and distance from the world, had also made them drop their guard against people walking the street beyond it. I was able to hear them in their most intimate moment, teeth bared in anger at one another. As soon as this idea of discovery struck me, I abandoned it, knowing that the mystery of the unhappy lives on the other side was more compelling to me than knowing their stories. I left them behind, their voices still crescendoing and ebbing in turn.

It seems absurd to know that a couple of people of decent wealth took time out in the middle of their day on Tuesday to rant at one another, doesn’t it? Not that Wednesday is the ideal day for such a thing, either. It occurs to me that I should send them a postcard to let them know that I hope their marriage survives. Would such a card help or hinder this effort?

So, I walked on, alone, in the middle of the day, the sun watching me as I made my progress along the new territory. The sidewalk was lined on both sides with beautifully-coiffed trees, their overhead limbs creating an austere canopy above me as I moved. It was strange to enjoy the tranquility of these trees, knowing that the residents behind the security wall paid a monthly reminder to keep it so elegant. I wondered, “Who owns it? He who pays for it or he who enjoys it?”

Before I turned to make my way back, a red wasp emerged from the recesses of a green trash container on the edge of the road. It flew directly toward me; had I not been looking directly at it, I’m sure I would now have a bright red stinger emerging from the tip of my nose. As it was, I reacted with grace. I’m kidding. I shrieked involuntarily and flailed around as if someone had just thrown a cupful of spiders into my knickers. I’m certain my idiocy was apparent as I writhed around to fight off the ongoing approach of the wasp as it buzzed around my head. I ran away from the red demon and kept walking.

Like most delicious stories of vengeance, however, this ended badly for the miscreant wasp. While it had forgotten me, I had not forgotten him. As I approached the scene of the initial (and unreported attack), I watched the confines of the green container closely. I crept up from the rear with my hat upraised. As I peered on the far side, I could see that the wasp was about to launch after me again. I swatted and scored a direct hit on the bastard, knocking him to the ground. Since I couldn’t Mike Tyson his ear, and not only because wasps don’t have ears), I jumped and reduced the wasp to particles. Victory was mine. It didn’t occur to me until much later that it could have ended badly had there been more than one wasp at the container. The aura of vengeance was therefore reduced by the uncertainty that the wasp I killed in revenge might have been an innocent bystander at the same container. I hope the owners of the trash receptacle were watching me from their windows. Perhaps if so, they are at this very moment writing a story regarding the ridiculous of a grown man waging war via his hat with flying insects.

PS: I wanted to use the marker in my pocket to draw a tiny outline of the wasp’s body on the pavement, as a warning to other wasps. While amusing, I had my doubts the owners of the driveway would see the humor in such a thing.

I make friends quite easily, no matter how many legs they have.

This morning, I could hear a visitor approaching from behind as I walked, its claws clicking the pavement in a strange pattern. I assumed it was either small animal or a demure middle-aged woman with poor nail hygiene who decided to walk the dark trails without shoes. (It’s Springdale – you never can be certain.) Despite previous history demonstrating that it’s ill-advised to assume, I was certain it was a small dog, enjoying some early morning freedom after it had tunneled under a fence or chewed a leash loose.

More than once as I walked I could see eyes in the brush or in the clearings ahead. Like humans, most animals scurry away when they detect my presence. I saw no other human beings in the dark as I walked. It’s fun to imagine that there are dozens of them beyond the reach of my vision, either zombies or those suited for jobs such as purchasing clerks, engineers, school administrators, or bank tellers.

The small dog continued to pace behind me. I didn’t want to startle it so I refrained from turning on my phone light. As I walked out of the canopy of trees, lights dimly reached me. I walked a few more paces and stopped to say hello to the dog as it came very close. It was an adult skunk, its thick black and white fur puffed around its face.

Before you say something ‘adulty’ like “It could have rabies,” you are of course correct. Given last year’s election results, however, I’ve abandoned logic for a system I refer to as “winging it.” I had the sensation that the skunk sought some sort of interaction as it too stopped about 3 feet away from me, sitting on the grass next to the trail. For a brief second, the part of my brain dedicated to self-amusement thought it would be fun to lean over and place my headphones on the head of the skunk to determine if he understood music in Spanish and the stylings of Maria Conchita Alonso. It was at that point it occurred to me that the skunk could have rabies. I don’t mind the idea of the painful rabies shots if I were to be bitten, but I make it a point to avoid any avoidable interactions with nurses, long known to be associated with all manner of ill luck and tragedy. (This joke sponsored by National Nurses Week.)

I wished the skunk well and continued walking. The skunk decided to continue to scurry along behind me so I slowed my pace to see how long it might follow me. It ran behind me for at least 200 paces. I finally stopped and tried to take a picture of it. I have a beautiful photo of absolute darkness and shapes devoid of any recognizable structure to show for it. In other words, it looked exactly like 90% of all vacation photos ever taken and most action plans devised by one’s boss.

Since I was walking in another new place, there were a few places where I was able to practice faith in the continuity of things, as I couldn’t see the ground. I walked and tried to use the less-dark places to determine the path. I felt as if I were walking on a literal metaphor for life at that point. Above, the bright stars shone and the leaves rustled. It was my moment and mine alone. It is the last day of summer and I walked mile after mile to pay homage to the approaching cooler days, the kind which demands that you sit at the kitchen table to read a few pages of a good book, only to find yourself 9 hours later, living inside that great book and within your own mind. Summer is a time when extroverts rule the earth, whereas fall belongs to introverts, writers, avid readers and other strange beings.

It was just me. And the skunks. I’m not sure who was getting the better bargain.
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On the way home, I had to wait a few moments as a snarl ensued ahead. Dozens of lights, the kind that always signal that someone is unexpectedly having a bad day, were blinking in synchronized alarm. As I neared the point of interest, I could see a man lying on the ground in the middle of the street as a few of our city’s finest attended to him. It looked like he had either been hit by a vehicle or that he had watched 5 minutes of the national news, both of which tend to result in such a trauma.
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Don’t look at the calendar to confirm Autumn’s arrival. Go outside when it the sun sets and breathe deeply. You can already detect the slightly fetid smell of encroaching decomposition. The acceleration has commenced.

There is no point to this post, no more than any other thing in our daily lives.

This morning, I sat gleefully rewarding the little finches in the cool morning air with little pieces of Cheerios. They seemed confused by the texture. I heard a foot scrape repeatedly with an unusual syncopation on the stones of the path. As I looked up, I locked eyes with an older gentleman. His hair was uncombed and his face was grayed and scruffy. His eyes were deeply shrouded in what I can best describe as a hard life. I imagined I could see his past behind his eyes, years of harsh unexpected surprises queueing behind him. His clothes were torn and his pants were covered in grime, the kind you seldom see on Tide commercials, the ones inhabited by bright, cheery folks with ample time to devote to pristine laundry. I nodded and said, “Good morning, sir” to him as he crossed in front of me, even as he held my gaze for a longer second than I expected. Then, I smelled his passing and I felt about as bad as anyone could feel for the next few seconds as I watched him shuffle his way out of my sight. Out of my life, he went. Something about his eyes reminded me of my dad at one of his low points. The birds were still chirping, though.
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I went to eat Tex-Mex for lunch. Really, I went to eat a mound of pico de gallo cleverly disguised as a meal. The place my wife and I chose was Acambaro, the one with the interior uglier than my sister and with service so inconsistent that its rhythm would be impossible to transform into a musical. Despite the ceilings evoking an abandoned drug house, the pico de gallo there of late rivals the plates served at Olympus.
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On our way back home from my culinary indulgence, we traversed Butterfield Coach Road, a wide, expansive multi-lane busy street on our side of town. A rider sans helmet was atop a rickety moped, trailing a long rope which had apparently been used in the 1920s for nefarious purposes. Attached to it was a young male striding a skateboard, wearing stylish sunglasses but also no helmet or protective gear of any kind. The moped was pulling the future organ donor at about 35 mph. Apart from the brazen illegality of it and the sheer audacious stupidity, I made a note to nominate these two citizens for a Darwin’s Award upon my return home. In their defense, they were certainly demonstrating the unholy trinity of carpe diem, Yolo, and narcissism. I can’t say I didn’t laugh or admire their total brazenness. My wife and I both had a chuckle at the idea of a Springdale policeman rounding the curve behind us and seeing the duo as they proudly gave him something to do.
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Later, I drove over to the Willie George Park by the Tyson Parkway. I had never walked this part of the area in the daylight, which means I had something in common with Edward Cullen. I turned South and walked toward the terminus of Hylton Road where it was unpaved. I began to smell it as I neared it: a house that easily could be the predominant example for Hoarders. This house has so much detritus of cars, boats, furniture, and treasures in the yard that it seemed as if a tornado had thrown the contents of an entire backwoods flea market into its yard. The smell was a combination of mold, failed genetic experiments and bad dreams. I am not one who can be described as having a weak stomach. With the blistering sun overhead though, I felt my stomach preparing to file a formal written complaint if the smell didn’t lessen. I didn’t attempt to look into the windows, in fear that something other than a human face might appear from inside. The dirt road didn’t seem to be welcoming to visitors. That house had all the appeal of a recently-cooked bag of rats. I’ll wager that no adherents to any fringe religion had dared traverse the complexity of that house’s yard – and if they had, their skeletons still remained there, in limbo.
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I walked back toward the car and then remembered that I had also never visited the canopied trail area on the far side while the sun was overhead. I walked around and stood on the trail, listening to the million tiny cymbals of noise the insects created for me. I had the trail entirely to myself. Walking back, I stood in the middle of the vast sports field with no one nearby, as the sun watched me from overhead. I couldn’t believe that Springdale continued to create these spaces for me to witness.

Surely other people know that these worlds exist in the middle of their lives.