...somewhere in the middle, snuckt receptacles to all...
21 September, 2012
18 September, 2012
Driving back from that mad place, San Francisco, today, fifteen miles per hour: interstate… listening to this radio as an announcer promises tickets rewarding "the craziest song request…" nirvana fades in, HiFi, as my tank growls, emptily.
Grumbling into the Quizno's, I haven't been to this one in months. Usual hostess, eyed, catches us both in laughter: "you're the guy that's *always* high!" Anxious laughter, *you're right*, I'm hungry, now to eat, friends. Thanks for that free cup / mixer / drink .
The second-to-last day of this so-far month of rewire, I hear unacquainted shuffling from deep within my customer's basement:
> [Boldly confused] "Hellow?! um… Can… I… um … help you?"
Just a hundred seconds since opening, a forty-something vagrant spooks in the garageway and, upon his discovery, astonishingly proclaims:
>> [Struggling to free this bicycle] "I'm just here to pick up my bike -- I left it here two weeks ago"
> [Perplexion] "Um… why don't you come back when the owners are here: I'm just working here today and I'm not comfortable with you walking out of here with anything."
>> [Aggravated] "Come on man, I just left it here the other day; they know I'm coming to get it!"
> "WHO knows you're coming here to get it..? You actually kind of scared me, and Julie usually let's me know if another contractor is going to be here, every day."
>> [thinking] "Uh… you know… B~o~b~ knows I'm here, today."
> "OK, well I'm still not comfortable with you walking out of here with the bike so why don't you just come back in an hour or so and sort things out with the owners."
>> [further angered] "OK well I'm just going to grab my stuff" [picks up one of many scattered brown paper bags, seemingly randomly]
> [eyes STUFF] "Alright well you were on your way out, and I need to grab something from my car, so let's just walk out together"
Seemingly offended, he clutches fiercely to *his* bag of stuff, as we seem to have an understanding / conversation. As we're exiting the basement slope, I block him off and question him on the bag's contents:
> "OK -- so look -- I told you I wasn't going to let you walk out of here with anything in your hands, so you're going to need to put the bag down"
>> [ticked off] "Look I TOLD you this is MY stuff" [sets down bag]. "SEE," [top item, he removes] "MY designer underwear!" [next item] "MY children's book" [next item, less confident] "my Thomas the … Engine … Tank" [keeps going!, pathetically]
> "Great, well, I'm glad you can name these as you pull them out of the bag, but clearly this isn't your stuff. If it is, come back in an hour and talk with 'Bob,' okay?"
>> [aggressively tries to leave with bag] "This is my stuff and I'm GOing."
> "Stop!" [Forcefully shoves similarly-sized man with approximately 70 pounds force, backwards] "Put the bag down" [unsheathes SHINY BLUE UTILITY KNIFE, freshly re-bladed]
>> [sets the bag down] "**stutters**" [contemplates next move] "FUCK YOU WHITEY" [pauses for response]
> [flips blade into lethal / slashing -mode: blade down-and-out] "Weren't you just leaving, friend?! …"
>> "FUCK YOU PIECE OF SHIT -- I'LL BE BACK TO GET MY STUFF -- FUCKING WHITE PIECE OF SHIT" [saunters off, niggardly]
> [pressing button to close garage] "Keep walking, friend"
The negropotus disappears. Making my way inside to warn the babysitter of such strange nearby encounters. We converse, exiting with reminders to *lock the door behind me*; just two steps are made before the orange of San Francisco's "GIANTS" flashes its dastardly way into my path, once again, and the stairs go downward.
> [pissed] "You came BACK, friend?!"
>> "TO GET! MY! STUFF!"
> [clicks knife open, again]
>> "because it's MY! STUFF!"
> "Okay, friend, now you pissed me off and now you need to leave. I KNOW it's not your stuff," [turns to babysitter] "Lock the door, call the police."
>> "Man ~~ blah blah blah ~~ you don't need to call the po-leeese ~~ I'LL call the POlice"
> "That's fine -- you call the police, she will, too. If you step onto this stairway I will fuck your shit up." [firmly stands ground with knife already down-and-out]
>> "FUCK YOU, WHITEY. FUCK THIS STREET. FUCK fuck fuck FUCK ~~ fuck yo kids ~ FUCK fuck FUCK" [doesn't step onto stairway throughout this racist tirade]
>>> [to vagrant] "Did you just threaten this man's kids?! HIS! KIDS!?" interjects a foreman, striding over from his renovation next door.
>> "Ahh -- nowayman -- of course not!"
> [all silent for our newcomer's boldness]
>>> "Get the hell out of here, dude. I've seen you sneaking around here for a while. Leave."
>> "Fuck the BOTH of you, you white-ass pieces of shit" [starts walking away, niggardly] "Number two-four-six, huh?!? That must be your place, huh…"
> "Shouldn't you know the address, already?! Look, 'Bob' doesn't live here and YOU don't have any place being here, so: just fucking leave, already."
>> [halts retreat] "It's my stuff, motherfucker"
> [truthful & crazily] "I JUST replaced this blade, friend, do you want to see how sharp it is?!"
Akimbo with this smug-ass grin spread across an otherwise-seethed face, from half-a-block away this dumb fucking nigger shouts "wipe that smirk off your stupid-ass face, White Boy." Good vision, I must say. But cheap in taste, dear friend.
Great recollections of the official scathing I soon later received: from the police, for disclosing earnestly, that just slightly-more-crazed, somebody mightwouldhave definitely enjoyed such outlet for a slashingly blissful rage. Sinking into flesh, but not this time.
>>>> [authority] "Just remember that you never want a lawsuit"
> [confidently] "There wouldn't be one."
>>>> "what if he had been in medical school or something?!"
> [confidently] "I went to medical school… what exactly do you mean by that, Officer?"
>>>> "Look, I'm just saying he could have come after you in court and you don't want that."
> [confidently] "He wouldn't have lived to see those days, I know the best places to cut."
All expressions ©Joumana Medlej
Ya'll have a nice day, sir.
rambles :: Reıd :: this :: drunken :: Tuesday, September 18, 2012
17 September, 2012
. Just wanting to pull that dimpled, flirtatious hair - Must be why you've placed purple chopsticks up in your purple hair - Cajoling the pros&cons of american/verse/norwegian threesomes . As Katherines humble before us: crescendo into trembling "Crash" .
"My reaction when somebody asks me why I have lotion on my desk"
rambles :: Reıd :: this :: drunken :: Monday, September 17, 2012