Spotted today: Tattoo of two words in the shape of a cross on a guy’s leg: vertically - “WHITE,” horizontally - “PRIDE.” Bumper sticker on the back of a giant Ford SUV: “NOBAMA / Say no to socialism in 2008.” Fun times.
The weirdest, dumbest thing happened to me last Monday. I’ve been reluctant to write about it because it’s so dumb.
I left the gym and drove across the street to a sporting goods store to browse kayaks (why? I can’t fit one in my car, definitely not on it). As I walked down the main aisle, I passed a mid-30’s white man with his two young boys sitting at a patio display. I couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup - the only detail that caught my eye was his jaw packed with tobacco. “Gross.” The man looked at his wife who was standing nearby and commented that I had a tattoo on my leg. He told her, “you should get one that says ‘666′.”
I paused, looked back for a second, and decided to keep moving. “What a random, stupid, pointless, ignorant thing to say.” But if I got upset at every redneck with a mouthful of Copenhagen, I would have died from heart failure a long time ago. I decided to make an effort to avoid the whole family.
I perused for a few minutes checking for some things, passing them in the distance a few times, until I decided to go pee and then leave. As I was leaving the restroom, I walked down a side aisle and serendipitously ended up at the main at the same time as the Redneck on the parallel aisle. “Thank God I’m leaving.” I passed him and went on my way. But I didn’t get more than a few feet away before I heard his wife say to him, “we’re done here, where are we going now?” And he loudly proclaimed at the top of his voice, “we’re gonna follow this guy since he’s been following US!”
That’d be me. And I was not.
He walked towards me and stayed no more than 12 inches behind me. I never looked back but I could hear his footsteps. His kids followed and I heard “c’mon boys, I want you to see this.” Unfortunately this continued all around the store, and the place is big. As we approached the busy registers, he stopped, but repeatedly screamed at me to wait outside for him. “Two minutes, buddy! Gimme two minutes and I’ll come out there and we’ll take care of this!” Again, I didn’t look back.
I felt safer once I got outside, but I’m not much of a fighter. Or if I am, I wouldn’t know since I’ve never been in one. I’ve never fought back. I got in my car and was backing out of my parking spot when I saw him in my rear view mirror walking towards me with his young two boys at his side. He was screaming all kinds of obscene things, but the only word I was sure I heard was “faggot.” Er, “FAGGOT!!1!!1!”
So I drove off. On the way home, a truck stayed behind me for more than a few turns and I was afraid it was him following me. I was afraid, but it was much later that night when I realized how scared I actually was. It was really dark and I was getting something out of my car and a stray puppy had wandered up behind me and barked. It wanted to play. I really think I almost had a heart attack. You know that feeling when something scares you and it’s like you can feel a fracture in every nerve cell of your body? Your aura shatters into a million pieces? That, only worse.
I’m still upset that this happened. Upset that he’s a redneck, that he’s teaching this to his boys, that he’s probably going to take this out on his wife, that she lacks the intelligence and self-esteem to stand up to him. But as dumb as it sounds, I’m more upset that I didn’t turn around. [Sob story] As a child I was beaten up, abused, had rocks thrown at me, things like that on a daily basis. Mostly, I let go of all that. I told myself a few years ago that it’s ridiculous to hold grudges against people for things they did when they were children.
Or in my case, things they didn’t do.
But the more I see adults act like children, the more I start to believe I was wrong.
[This post contains much angst! Take heed!]
I am not naming my iPod after a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. They were not before my time. Sadly, they were precisely my time. I’m thinking of calling him Abelino. Abelino is the guy who manages a restaurant where I go for lunch…a lot. He is an ungodly, unnatural brand of beautiful. And I like the idea of his rear being clipped to my belt. I really wish I could show you what he looks like - it’s not like I haven’t made a concerted e-stalking effort. But all I can find out is that he’s 27. He must be career-oriented or something.
Anyway, the bug finally bit today and I had to start cleaning. I’m still going to vacuum every square inch of everything later on, but I got rid of half the clothes in my closet and the whole of the rest of the junk in there. I’m getting a high staring at the glorious cleanliness. Most of the clothes were relics of the 2000-2001 era. I can’t believe some of the stuff I used to wear, and would you believe I found pleats in there?! Pleats. In my closet. I’m no fashionista but I don’t promote front-butt, either.
I also happened across an old box taped shut with a label written in Sharpie: “High School Crap.” The box was misshapen and noticed it smelled kind of musty when I realized it must have been damaged from The Great Flood of ‘05 when the toilet ran over all night. I spent weeks salvaging and thought I was in the clear. There was mildew on the bottom. I wasn’t really ready for that trip down memory lane but in the spirit of cleaning, I thought I better see what was worth saving.
The top was mostly notes and things I wanted to keep from the newspaper staff, including many old papers we produced. I left that folder closed because I know how embarrassing some of the stuff I wrote was. Under that, a whole book of pictures of my ex-best-friend Brian, with whom I was moderately in love. He came immediately after high school, so I’m not sure how he managed to get into that box, but nostalgia nonetheless. I’m still very angry with him.
Further down - old UIL certificates, medals and ribbons for singing. More photos… graduation, friends, people I hated… more junk… graduation cap… and then, all of a sudden… the ex. Not an ex. The ex. The one. Photos of him anyway, I didn’t mean I found his toenail clippings or corpse.
Most of the time I forget how much I loved him - maybe because of the numbness I feel in its absence or the time that has since passed. Or both. But occasionally it will come flooding back; not fully or all-consumingly, but in the way that I suppose a mere drop of heroin would affect a reformed addict. And as I persued them, I realized the significance of the photos. I took most of them, and I could feel and remember the things that were going through my head as they were snapped. Like I had imbued each one with an imprint. And each one was more than just a photo to remember the way someone looked: each one was an experience. And there were dozens of them. Of him.
Needless to say, I was not ready for this trip down memory lane. Later this month, it will have been six years since I’ve seen him. We’ve kept minute contact, mostly online. In fact, I chatted with him last week (after two years). It’s not hard because I won’t see him in person. He’s settled down with some gorgeous wealthy guy he met in college. They have a condo and two dogs.
It’s not like I still want to be with him, but I feel despair over the loss of the passion I felt back then. He’s nothing more than a symbol of that now. And that’s sad.
In the closet, I also found pictures of another ex. He was such a nice guy, but I treated him like shit and he knew that I was obviously in love with someone else. He held me while I cried over him. And he slept in my bed when the sheets had some other guy’s stains on them. I did not treat him well. He once told me, “if you ever want to break up with me, just do it, and don’t let things slowly fade.” I couldn’t even do that for him. I can’t even remember his last name. And now I’ve found these pictures of him and I think maybe I’d like to know if he’s doing well. And I don’t deserve to know.
And even though I don’t believe in Karma, I feel like I deserve to be its recipient. I listen to love songs with naive optimism forgetting that I’ve hurt people, too. I only broke up with one guy the “right” way - by telling him that we were breaking up.
I’m sure that tomorrow I’ll get out of bed and won’t feel at all guilty. But for today, I feel guilty.
