Yesterday, I unintentionally scared the hell out of a pedestrian in a crosswalk. I was doing taxi service around 4:00, coming up the dreaded hill on Appleby. It bothered me today. She was obviously physically fit because she instinctively employed a combination of a windmill defense and a double time step inspired by bad ’80s music. What she didn’t know were two things. First, it was exactly at that point several years ago I was rear-ended and it totaled my car, after I had experienced the worst couple of weeks of my life. Second, yesterday a car behind me had been engaging in aggressive driving. After I made the right turn onto Appleby, I had foolishly hoped that he focused his attention on his next cave drawing. Instead, he had accelerated much too quickly behind me after making the same turn. There is no way he would have avoided hitting me if I hadn’t gassed my little vehicle very quickly. I made a turn with a wider arc to give myself just enough space to avoid the idiot behind me as well as not scaring the pedestrian. But I hadn’t accounted for her instinctive reaction. The cretin behind me sped up the hill on his way to whatever nonsense such people get involved in. All the pedestrian saw out of the corner of her eye was a little blue cloud of a car apparently heading toward her. I tried to wave an apology profusely but she was already making her way across the crosswalk shaking her head in disgust. Today it was back to normal and instead of worrying about somebody hitting me from behind I kept an eye on the vehicles coming down the hill at 70 mph. I wish I could apologize to the woman. And also congratulate her on both her dance moves and physical agility. X
Social media can be deceptive. Even convicted rapists can you use it as if everyone in the world doesn’t know their past. When you’re aware that people can remain at large in society after being found guilty of heinous behavior, it makes you cynical and paranoid. Most of us would be more comfortable being surrounded by people who’ve robbed banks. It’s not targeted and does not engage the primal fear of helplessness that personal crime does.
Eric Osborne’s blitheness on social media can’t be chalked up to obliviousness. By the point multiple people have accused you of criminal behavior, most people’s veneer of innocence dissipates. This is doubly true if you are convicted of such behavior, as is the case of our Canadian friend Eric Osborne. What creates frustration for his victims is that he’s engaging with the world, one which is largely unaware of his path of endangering women.
What’s different in the Canadian criminal system is that even victims can be subject to an injurious and nonsensical publication ban. This hinders a victim’s right to expression – a hindrance not placed upon the accused. People who have been subject to stalking, harassment, or physical harm can’t talk about the person who committed the acts. This endangers those who are exposed to the person accused of such crimes.
Eric Osborne uses his social media and internet presence to obfuscate how he has terrorized women. It’s no longer a question of opinion or he-said-she-said. Either he’s delusional and detached from the reality that he’s experienced in the criminal justice system, or he Is something else entirely. The woman who experienced him at his worst has several names for this kind of man. “Convicted” carries more weight than “accused.” That he pled guilty to charges relating to violence against women should be more than ample grounds for the Canadian justice system to act accordingly.
Southern Justice, unfortunately, isn’t an approved export.
The ongoing frustration is that he’s out of incarceration temporarily. His presence among us in free society presents of clear and present danger to those he has victimized. He’s out on a technical appeal, even though he pled guilty to similar charges against several other women. This type of insanity is part of the reason why victims become doubly victimized; first by their perpetrator and secondly by the system that allegedly protects them.
One of his very recent posts refers to people gossiping about him. I’m curious as to whether he counts the crown or the prosecution as guilty of gossip. Technically they did gossip when they arrested and then incarcerated him for crimes against women.
I will leave it to all of those curious to Google Eric Osborne and research it for themselves. He resides in Canada. It shouldn’t be difficult for anyone to find a trail of how he’s behaved and whose lives he ruined. Don’t forget to include marital and divorce records if you take a dive. Search for blogs and archives that might make mention of him.
People like him thrive in secrecy. Canada should bow its head in shame at forcing women to remain silent at any point in their experiences. And another prolonged bow for exposing its citizenry to someone who has clearly demonstrated that he’s not yet fit to be roaming the streets among civilized people. Eric is highly intelligent and adept at hiding in plain sight; this chameleon identity is what made him so successful when he chose to victimize women.
I saw him coming up the trail access. The shadows and lighting at 2 a.m. were murky at best. His approach seemed suspicious. I’m not generally concerned about the what-ifs of such people. Someone can just as easily jump onto me from the tree canopy if they’d like. (At times, I almost wish someone would. What a story that would be.) I can run fast, and my appearance tricks people into thinking I’m Gomer. While I am no Bruce Lee, I can snatch someone bald-headed faster than they can say “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” I say “hello” or wave to everyone. I’d probably wave “howdy” to the Queen if she came sightseeing.
It had to be a man approaching me or perhaps the Beauty Queen of Madison County. I realize that I am repeating myself with that comparison. My apologies to the residents of Madison County, all of whom stopped reading after the first paragraph due to lip fatigue.
As he grew closer, the light from the streetlight illuminated him more. He had one hand in his pocket, and his pace seemed off.
As he came closer, my comedic instincts took over. “Have you seen my pet llama? He got out of the backyard a few minutes ago.”
“What’s that you said? A llama?” He pronounced it oddly, like he’d grown up learning phonetics from an inebriated bingo caller.
“A llama, yes. He got out.”
He stopped in his tracks, confused. “No. Not even a dog.”
“Dang. Thanks. I can’t own dogs, though. Not after Ohio.”
I could see that the gears weren’t clicking. It was too much odd conversation. He looked back and then at me two or three times.
“Well, have a good morning. I hope my llama is okay.”
“Yeah, me too,” he said, and kept walking, this time with a stable pace. I briefly wondered what he might do if I started running toward HIM. Imagine that police report.
“Gomez, where are you?” I half-shouted, even if the residents are the nearby apartment complex heard me.
My llama Gomez didn’t materialize.
You’re welcome to use the Gomez the Llama self-defense response if you’d like.
This is a long post. It’s not funny. A few people might read it and take offense or exception to it. Such a defensive response only happens when someone is speaking the truth, usually one that isn’t favorable. I have hundreds of stories.
Last December, a woman was basically decapitated while cleaning pizza-making machinery. She was doing so without being able to lock out the machinery. It seems preposterous to most of us. But not to me. She had less protection than most because she was working as a temporary employee. Many of these facilities are operated and cleaned by employees who don’t have a lot of options, much less training. Even with both things being true, the financial pressure exerted to be efficient tends to overwhelm even common safety measures. This happens all across the United States every single day of the year. People are expected or required to work faster and to cut corners. Companies tend to say the right things when it comes to safety, but so many employees go to work every day knowing that they will have to cut corners to get the job done with the staffing and time allotted. It’s no secret that most companies cut labor costs. Fewer people are expected to do more while maintaining the quality of whatever they’re producing while simultaneously building a house of cards in regard to safety.
When I was very young, I was involved in an absolutely astounding case involving food safety that also dovetailed with personal safety. It had such a huge impact on my attitude. Working in a dairy removed any doubt as to the process of what goes into milk.
Later, although years ago, when I worked at a food manufacturing facility, I watched a lot of this happen. I had several near misses, a couple of which I still sometimes dream about. One of them could have easily ripped my head off, and only luck kept it from happening. The machine was a huge rapid cooling machine with interconnected mobile shelves connected to a dual elevator. It was -40° and 40 plus feet tall. A huge bank of powerful motors constantly roared to feed the gigantic cooling coils.
Prior to my introduction to the machinery, a maintenance person had almost been cut in half by the moving elevator portion of the apparatus. It was interesting hearing management’s perspective on this. The maintenance person survived but was severely impacted by the injuries for the rest of his life. It wasn’t until I became responsible for the machine on my shift that I realized just how pernicious the demands of efficiency were and how they constantly violated safety protocols.
I had subcutaneous frostbite on both knees from working on the incredibly cold surfaces. Getting shots behind one’s kneecaps is not something I recommend. When I’m about to do push-ups, I go through long periods where I have to use one knee to kneel. Otherwise, there’s a strange pain that has lingered through the years. I’m sure some of my hearing loss is attributable to those roaring fan systems.
Working in negative 40° environments required very specific and expensive protective footwear. Many employees, especially those from staffing agencies, were not given proper footwear and often had to work in this environment with rubber boots. I know it sounds like I’m exaggerating. There was more than one occasion when I took the employee and bought him boots, using my own money, that would protect him. And even those weren’t up to the expected standard demanded of the machine. On one occasion, my middle manager threatened to write me up or fire me if I bought boots for another employee again. He was angry that it made him look bad. Shame would have been a better response. Had Jesus been in the room, someone would have been smitten.
When management would decide it was time to defrost the system, the engineers who developed it indicated it needed at least 3 days without use simply to defrost it to the correct temperature. Of course, management allotted less than a day. Even though it cost millions of dollars to construct the immense machine on an insulated pad, It was no surprise that huge cracks formed in the foundation constantly. The powerful drive shafts constantly failed as the junction boxes warped. Metal shelves weighing hundreds of pounds fell or got hung constantly.
At one point, I fell about 20 ft from the elevator platform. My padded freezer suit helped lessen the fall. I didn’t break anything but was impossibly sore for several weeks. A co-worker was on the platform with me at the time. He later said he was certain that he was witnessing a death. In some ways, I was a much different person back then. Had the wrong thing been said to me about this incident or ignorant questions about safety protocols implemented at the time, I would have handed them a list of several hundred contributing factors that had not been addressed. Everyone knew we were running the operation under the “wink” system. Just remember the Manhattan Project and the first nuclear bomb if you’re not sure what the “wink” system is. While the scientists were certain that the first nuclear bomb would not ignite the entire planet, the people authorizing the project would have proceeded anyway. They wanted a bomb and a test to prove its viability. The infinitesimally small risk of setting the entire planet ablaze wasn’t much of a concern.
Despite the fact that there were very rigid protocols on paper for correcting mechanical issues, the truth is that there was enormous pressure from management to do whatever had to be done to keep the machine operating. Half of the plant’s food production required the use of the machine for chilling or freezing. Some of this is also why I shake my head at our alleged USDA inspection system. The truth is that companies producing food are given too much leeway to monitor their processes. Time and time again, food-borne illnesses prove that processes can’t be trusted. Trust God but keep your powder dry.
When I read restaurant inspections, all of the swirls in my head. The people who own restaurants have a complete list of requirements. They are a part of doing business. Yet, when inspected, a wild variety of problems get noted. And most of these have been going on for a while when they are caught. Again, some of it is due to improper behavior by employees. Noting that, however, never negates the obligation of the people in charge of the restaurant to ensure that things are done correctly. It is their job to hire, train, and keep people functioning safely. The blame always falls on the people whose job is to ensure standards adherence.
When I worked at the food facility, I wasn’t proud that I ducked participating in the alleged defrosting and cleaning of the system. There were a lot of accidents during these shenanigans. I’m not sure how to characterize what we were supposed to be doing versus the objective. There was no correlation in reality. I can say that most of the motivation for doing it was to satisfy the perception that we were cleaning and maintaining the machine properly. A couple of times, I probably should have been fired for not participating. I expected to come back to the immense department to a vertical crack in the machine platform, similar to after an earthquake.
Everything about it was handled improperly. Both from a food safety perspective and its mechanical operation. People who had no knowledge of the apparatus were constantly making outrageous decisions about every facet of its operation. Were the department and machine mine, I would have required lengthy training for everyone associated with the machine. But we were constantly tasked with doing whatever we had to to keep it running, with people walking in off the street or from staffing agencies. The language barrier wasn’t a problem for me because I speak Spanish. But none of the operational or safety literature was provided in other languages. Even if it were, we were never going to be allotted sufficient personnel or time to train people. Most days, we felt exactly like Lucy as she attempted to eat all the chocolates as they went past her.
There were a couple of other operators whom I trusted with my life with that machine. (Because I was trusting them with my life.) We were often in the machine while it was operational. It was during one of those occasions when I was inside, and one of the operators I trusted was attempting to keep the machine operational in order to keep the plant moving. The sweep arm moving product was behind me as I observed the mechanical arms in conjunction with the photo sensors. It hung up and dropped just as I stepped away. It caught me across the back of the neck and shoulders and began pulling me. I realized immediately that I had to act fast. So I fell to the floor a couple feet ahead of the horizontal shelving. Had I not done so, I would have lost my head.
One afternoon, I was lying on the conveyor system, attempting to keep the output window functional. I’d been in there several minutes, and my nose was running freely. It’s important to remember that the huge banks of fans were blowing hundreds of horsepower of wind through the machine while I was in it. You learn to ignore a runny nose or wait until it freezes on your face. Once it freezes, you forget about it. My face mask had hardened too much, so I pulled it up to be able to breathe. Since the system was running, I rolled over to avoid getting pushed out of the narrow output window. On each side was a stainless steel gear case encompassing the conveyor system gears. As I rolled over, my face made contact with the stainless steel that was around -40°. My face stuck instantly to the metal. Because the product was coming out at my feet, I rolled again, and as I did so, the mucus from my nose that had instantly froze stuck to the metal gearbox. It took me several minutes to realize I lost the skin across the side of my nose and above my lip. That’s what that kind of extreme cold will do.
I don’t dream about that machine much anymore. I tend to have them if I have a fever. Most involve injury or metal platforms falling off the elevator system from 40 feet in the air.
When I see news stories, especially ones that have marked similarities to what I experienced, I get irritated again. Because I know that more people will get injured or die. It’s true that some of these cases are a result of the employee being negligent through their own fault. Is it a secret that we can be stupid? It’s equally true that another portion of these are the consequence of employees being required to do things unsafely or too quickly in order to get the job done. People who are not familiar with such industries or jobs object and say that the solution is for the employees to simply refuse. The work world does not work that way for most of us. Most of the things you enjoy, from your chicken sandwich to your phone, get produced through the efforts of countless people who are risking their safety constantly.
If you’ve never stood on a production line needing to go to the bathroom but can’t, or you’ve realized that the only reason your job exists is because that machine can’t do it, you’re lucky. You can say that a particular person can get another job. That’s true. But our production machinery requires someone to do these jobs. If it’s not you, it must be someone. A lot of ‘someones.’ Not that it’s related to this post, but in part, this is why I get so annoyed at those who object to the idea of a living wage. If we expect people to be in those jobs, those jobs exist because we expect the result to be available to us. Whether it’s a hamburger or our car washed. Anyone performing a job that we require through our choices should be able to pay their bills based on that exchange of time for money. As for whether someone who unclogs a toilet deserves to make as much as someone providing healthcare, the answer is that it’s complicated. I certainly expect my sewage to disappear and don’t need to wonder too long about what happens if it doesn’t. That result is valuable. We need brain surgeons. But go a week without a working toilet and see how quickly you dream of working pipes.
There’s a whole hidden world of production and service around us. If you’ve never seen it, you might see the story I mentioned at the beginning of this post and easily shake your head at the stupidity of the person who was injured or killed. I have the opposite perspective. I know that in most cases, that employee was put into a position most of the time where reality imposed a different set of rules. She came to a job with minimal training, a language barrier and quickly saw how other employees got the job done. She did not have a lot of options regarding work. I am certain she was glad to be employed in order to live and provide for her family.
We need our world of workers. It’s easy to fall into the trap of failing to respect that they are assuming a risk each day they work. The very people who need our support the most often get scorn for the jobs they’re doing.
There’s much more I could say, even though you might look at the length of this post and wonder how that’s possible. I’m pragmatic about work. Most of us are. Even when I’m loving my job, I often think of the hundreds of thousands of people doing more with less for less money. I might not be at risk of literally losing my head while doing my job, but somewhere, someone is. X
I’ve had a post about contractors in my draft folder for 2 years. The impetus to finish it wasn’t there because I no longer own a house. But all of us use contractors, exterminators, and various other people to help us with the things we need to be done. Whether we own or rent, we’re all going to have strangers in our house, deliver to our door, or have access.
Even though bad things happen, they’re rare because most people are good. Even if they aren’t, fear of consequences keeps most of them in line. I’m no alarmist, but all of us who watch or read the news see a barrage of crazy stories where people misbehave. Frankly speaking, many of these encounters can be minimized or avoided if people are both aware and prepare.
I joke a lot about people making the mistake of saying things like, “…but what are the odds of that happening?” The odds of course aren’t high, but they are definitely non-zero. People who’ve had planes crash on them get the last word regarding what is “likely” to happen.
If you think about all the people you’ve known and stories you’ve heard, I think it’s fair to say that we’ve all been on the perimeter of misbehavior. All of us have felt the shock of hearing or seeing someone we know do something bad. That effect is multiplied countlessly outside of our own lives.
One thing that everyone should do is at a minimum have a camera on their front door if they can afford it. Or one capturing anyone coming into their residence. Cameras of course tend to dissuade misbehavior. But not always.
You can’t research the people coming to your house or inside it. This gig economy gives a wider swath of different people the ability to move about. Whether it’s Uber, Amazon delivery, or any service.
Just remember that it’s your home and your private safe place. Don’t open the door if you don’t need to. And remember that anybody that comes inside your residence could be anybody, good or bad. Making the mistake of judging them based on their appearance potentially can be a mistake. It doesn’t matter if they are a police officer, lawyer, or welder. People misbehaving come in all shapes and clothing. Studies prove that just seeing someone around greatly reduces your sense of danger or insecurity. The familiar by its nature disarms us. For those few people with ill intentions, most of them have crafted and perfected their words, appearance, and behavior.
Recently, I got reminded of this because of someone inside my bubble. The person turned out to be what my instincts told me he might be. I still have the lingering feeling that his presence on this planet affected a lot of people. And even though I should not say so, things might have happened had the universe not intervened.
I don’t want people to be scared as they live their lives. That’s no way to live.
I wade directly into the middle of strangers, sometimes even when I know there is a risk. But I make that choice for myself. Letting someone into my home is another thing entirely. My ex next door neighbor was a drug dealer. Drugs don’t make me nervous because a surprising number of people use them without ever behaving inappropriately. But all of us know that peripheral behavior often accompanies those who do. And then the people below me had a visibly suspect cast of characters in and out. Often it’s not the people with obvious characteristics of mischief and mayhem who turn out to be the creeps and monsters. A great number of them have a beautiful smile and show no outward expression of their intentions.
I know a few people whose lives were almost ruined by people with wide smiles and dark hearts.
Just be careful. Especially regarding where you live.
PS The picture has nothing to do with the post. Yesterday afternoon I sat in my office chair as a hundred rainbows washed over me from the prisms hanging on the landing.
“In sickness and health” is a beautiful standard. It reminds us that life isn’t easy.
I’ll leave it to someone whose opinion I cherish to briefly sum up one of the caveats that eluded me: “A cancer diagnosis falls under “in sickness and in health.” Choosing obesity does not.”
It’s also true for alcoholism or anything that is behavior-driven. Overcoming any of these problems is a lot of work. Of course it is!
This doesn’t imply that some people don’t have physical or emotional struggles that make it harder. I’m not discussing the outliers. I’m talking about most of us, the ones who fall into drinking and slowly drive our loved ones mad with concern and consequences. Or those who gain weight and instead of honestly addressing the issue, learn to accommodate the effects of their choices. Their partners might be the most loving people in the world. They might encourage, they might support, and they might also quietly watch the person they love lose sight of their health. But the partner with the behavioral issue is making the decision for both partners.
I’m reluctant to talk about weight for a lot of reasons, one of which is that it impacted me personally, both as the person guilty of it and then the person attempting to get my partner to see that the consequences of choosing to let it get worse were damaging our quality of life on multiple levels. The other thing that makes me hesitant is that we have such a huge taboo against openly and honestly talking about weight. It’s a global problem.
Love is a feeling. It is also action. And reciprocal and mutual action when it affects your partner. When the consequences of your choices rob both of you of the enjoyment of life and each other, it’s no shame for your partner to ask you to do something different. They wouldn’t ask if they didn’t love you.
I only equate alcoholism and obesity because of the complexities of both behaviors. They both require a realization on the part of the person affected by them. And both bring consequences to both partners attempting to lead a good, healthy life.
It shouldn’t be taboo to talk about either one. And if anger results from either conversation, you have a bigger problem. But the anger also acknowledges the severity of the underlying conversation.
People forget my background and the way I was raised. Yes, it was damaging. But it also left me with a visceral radar. There are times when I doubt it. I don’t know why because time after time, I discovered later that it was dead on, even when there wasn’t anything overt to signal my reaction. It’s important to know that I’ve been wrong, too – at least as far as I know. For people who don’t have it, I can’t quite explain the discomfort and unease some people transmit. It made me feel like the damage from my childhood broke something in me. Though I don’t like it now that I’m older, I think it is a strength. It’s sometimes caused me problems because I struggle to explain to people that other people around them might be concealing some serious defects. They look at me like I’m crazy. I’d like people to stop and seriously consider what I’m telling them, even if there is no evidence to support my radar.
Today, I discovered that I was more than right about someone. It gave me a little bit of PTSD for the day not long after my surgery when I thought I might have to do some serious damage. It led me to take one-on-one self-defense tutorials. Even with a long, painful scar in the middle of my stomach. The truth is that no one can stop bad people. The police, if they help at all, only ‘help’ after the crazy person has caused harm.
Today’s discovery was a revelation and affirmation. It proved that I wasn’t crazy, at least not that way.
Most people walking around are good, decent people. I still believe that.
But I also know that people have many secrets. Some dark, some personal. And among them are a few interspersed evil human beings among us.
I’m not going to share the details of one of the people I was right about. It’s disgusting any way you look at it. I knew the person was bad. I didn’t know how right I was. I was lucky – and so were a lot of other people. There were days when I expected the worse. There were days when I almost hoped I’d have to react. At least then, the person wouldn’t be around to do further harm. Or I’d be beneath a pile of brush somewhere in the fields. That I recognize a residual part of my dad in me, what I call “The Bobby Dean,” makes me laugh and a little nervous.
I realize that a small part of my continuing to do push-ups and stay in shape is that people will see an older man with a smile. They’ll assume I don’t have a radar that warns me about them. I’m still wondering why I continue to have self-doubt when it goes off. My life teaches me over and over that I shouldn’t. I never fear people when they approach me, when they need help, or even when they are acting strangely. I’m very open to people. It’s the ones you don’t see coming that cause so much havoc.
Before finishing, I’d also like to say I’m disheartened that our system doesn’t do more to help people when they’ve identified the bad people. Someone in my satellite circle is currently experiencing a little bit of a nightmare trying to navigate the impersonal and bureaucratic system that is supposed to protect them. I’d like to be hopeful and enthusiastic, but I also know that there are times when things go wrong. Afterward, the people who could have done something inevitably ask, “What could we have done?”
The answer is, “Well, something!”
PS I don’t like the tone of these words, but since I’m an imperfectionist, I’m leaving them as is. Everyone brings their own filters and preconceptions to our behavior and words anyway. There’s no use trying to control or curate it.
The apartment near me is now empty! Even though it is not libel or slander to state the truth, I’ll refrain from commentary about the previous tenant(s). It’s a relief, even though I know the next tenant(s) could easily surpass that tenant’s curriculum vitae. It still surprises me when stress is relieved, one that is almost subliminal. It’s not that the person was a particular threat per se, other than the one incident when I thought I would have to summon the Bobby Dean demons. It was the unknown of what such a tenant invites, who they attract, and who they have in their circle.
Even though most people won’t understand it, I got triggered AF for a while. I’m not normally prone to that kind of unease. Not just for myself but also for everyone else. I listen to that instinct. My dad, despite his flaws, literally beat that instinct into me.
I love where I live for a lot of reasons. I’ve done more than my share to make it better. It’s an uphill push sometimes, but what isn’t?
I’d like a family of Latinos, someone older, or someone who speaks a different language. Or plays the piano. Someone creative and without the urge to find odd ways to live joyfully. I doubt those checkboxes can be found on most applications for a lease. Plus, no one asked me, even though I am certain I could do a fantastic job of weeding out the crazies. Not just because I identify with the crazies but because my interview questions would be a hell of a lot more interesting.
Being in apartments brings disadvantages; it also brings opportunities, too. People surprise me, especially when they turn out to be interesting and people I’d likely not meet otherwise. Some have reminded me that it’s hard to “judge not” based on first impressions or the people they are related to. All of us have outliers in our families, which probably sounds odd coming from a weirdo like me.
It’s akin to humanity bingo.
It’s dumb to be thankful for the absence of a neighbor.
But I am.
I recognize that tingle in the back of my mind: I feel safer now.
I’m a big, big believer in letting people do their thing, no matter what it is. If people want to set their hair on fire inside, that’s wonderful. If they want to blast music, even when it’s not necessarily joyous for me, that’s okay too. My litmus test is, “Is it safe for everyone else?” Otherwise, bring on the clowns.
Entering the convenience store, I noted several people waiting or milling around. A couple of them seemed uncomfortable. Within a second, I realized why. A woman was standing near the counter, berating the workers for some kind of misunderstanding or error regarding the gas pumps. No matter the content of her argument, all I witnessed was someone forgetting the stupidity of such behavior. Her anger possessed her. I could see it contaminating everyone witnessing it. The woman in question stomped out, hollering, “Never mind! I give up.” When I exited, I could see her angrily talking to another person at the pumps in a different vehicle. “Spread that anger infection some more, yes, please,” I said to myself in my head. I hope I remember the experience the next time I feel anger flare uncontrollably inside me. Anger seldom looks attractive on anyone.
On the short leg of my drive home, I followed behind a Jeep. It happened quickly, so I had no reaction time. The plastic cover inserted into the missing back window frame blew out. I watched in slo-mo as it flipped over a couple of times and went under my car. It seemed inevitable that it would have flipped up and hit my windshield directly. I followed the Jeep, honking my absurd horn. It slowed as if to turn left. I honked again, and the Jeep instead continued straight. As it neared the light ahead, it turned red. When the Jeep stopped, I hopped out and ran to the driver’s side. “You lost your back window back there. It didn’t damage my car, but it’s still on the road. You’re going to be a bit cold without it. Have a great day!” I gave him a thumbs-up and ran back to my car.
Because no one knows how to easily turn into my driveway, the Jeep contained ahead, and I turned in. After parking, I watched the road for a minute. The Jeep went back by in the opposite direction. The driver undoubtedly decided that the cold warranted a return trip for the plastic window insert. It made me happy to think I took a chance to let him know. I’d recommend some screws or duct tape if he’s going to put it back on.
As for Gûino, he will be 15 early next year. He’s a spry, healthy cat for his age. If he is so inclined, he can scrunch down and jump seven feet straight up. There’s no doubt about it that he shouldn’t go outside. When I moved here, and he came back to live with me, his paws didn’t go far from the door and certainly not downstairs. He’s grown familiar with the building, the pitbull who loves cats (really) on the end, and some of the residents. I stopped letting him out in the dark after a particularly scary moment a few weeks ago. But one of his joys is to scamper out the door and sniff, discover, and explore. It could easily result in a surprise or tragedy for him. There’s no denying it. But at his age, given the unlikely scenario that he’ll survive as long as I’d like him to, I stopped struggling with the overwhelming worry he would get lost, kidnapped, or fatally hurt out there. I try to monitor him. Sometimes he fools me. I have three Blink cameras to surveil him. If the worst happens to him, I will be devastated. I’ll feel immensely guilty. I temper that possible outcome against his age. To be inside all the time when I know he’s grown to love scampering outside, sometimes forcing me to chase him on the upper landing, up and down stairs, and across the parking lot. It’s a game to him.
Erika sent me a video from her Blink from yesterday. Gûino had already enjoyed his prison yard time but decided to dart out the door without written permission from me. So, to startle him into remembering he can’t do that, I chased him all the way down the building and stairs, all the way back inside my apartment. And yes, I know I was running a little bit fruity in the video accompanying this post.
I want him to have a longer life. But I’d rather him have a fuller life, even if that brings risk.
As someone who narrowly avoided precarious death a few times, it’s hard to convince me that risk is entirely real.
Earlier, I watched as a crew dangerously and hilariously attempted to connect the electrical panel of the newly-constructed house next door to a utility pole. I heard a heated conversation yesterday in which one electrician patiently attempted to explain why they should not do it the easy way. That guy was obviously voted down. They used our apartment parking lot to stage the melee. Since they didn’t trim or remove any of the already dangerous overhanging trees from the property, it was foolhardy at best. (It’s a waste even to connect it there. With the first high winds, that house is going to lose power as the limbs snap off. I should know – I’ve picked up a literal ton of the limbs that have fallen there as they crash down. I feel a bit sorry for whoever buys the house with all those weak and damaged trees towering over it.)
Even though I should not let Güino roam so much, I let him periodically downstairs for short increments. I don’t want anything to happen to him. He’s 14 1/2 years old now. So, I pity him and let him roam a bit. I accept the risk of his possible demise by various causes. He’s insanely happy exploring. The cacophony of the trucks, crashing tree limbs, and the cursing of the workers scared him. I went out to retrieve him and couldn’t find him. The worse scenario filled my brain: he ran away to escape the noise, possibly forever. I waited ten minutes and went back around the area: no Güino. After a few more minutes, I found him sitting behind the loudest and largest truck with the canopy lift. Regardless of the workers, I crouched under the truck on its pedestal supports and managed to get him. One of the workers told me to move away. I was very polite and said, “Given that you’re on private property, undertaking a foolish means of connecting a power supply, I think I will go wherever I might please, sir. If you have a problem with that, keep it to yourself.” He didn’t reply.
When I went out and about, I discovered that I had sent my most prized possession (“the” nail) to the wrong address. It was my mistake. I knew that the address didn’t look like the current one, but I trusted the master list on which I keep everything. The nail might be lost forever. Either way, I had released it back into the universe. I told my sister I was confident it wasn’t lost forever, even though I can’t explain why I believe it.
I was in a weird enough head space anyway, and my anxiety had flared. Between the nail, the cat, and personal thoughts intruding on me, I was already a bit out of sorts.
When I was backing out of a parking spot at Walmart, I waited for a split second for a woman to my right to enter her vehicle and shut the door. I continued to back out, and I heard a weird shout. A man resembling a cowboy stood a couple of feet away from my car, looking very angry. Evidently, he had stepped out between the cars parked the opposite way. I’m assuming the huge red truck with a million accessories was his. I stopped and exited the car as he began his tirade. I didn’t even put my hands up, even though I was certain he would hit me. As he grunted and cursed, I took a step toward him. My eyes teared up, and he saw it. Something recoiled inside him. I saw it in real-time. He shook his head and walked away quickly. Make of that whatever you want to. I didn’t tear up because I was scared; quite the opposite. No matter how stupid this is going to sound, I think I wanted him to hit me.
A friend wrote and told me about the shooting in central Arkansas. I had a conversation about that sort of thing happening in the workplace this morning. One of my co-workers who has another job worked with someone who killed and dismembered his girlfriend. I’d say allegedly, but his track record of anger is well-known.
We all need a hefty dose of hugs and peace.
This is true every day.
Güino is safe. I’ve left the door open, and he’s exited and entered twice more, both times to get a few pets.
I’m safe but not sane.
I’ll keep an eye on the electrical lines as they spark and fail sooner rather than later.
Let’s keep an eye out for people who spark and fail, too.
But let’s also remember how much life has to offer.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 