Big Baby

There is one particular bookstore at the end of the Southside that my wife and I frequent for its bathrooms. It’s a great place to relieve yourself on a Saturday afternoon or early evening. Yesterday, I was in the men’s room in a stall. Things were going well, in a normal and predictable turn of events. Then I heard the door open. Two people entered. One was silent and the other was obviously a child. The child was dancing around anxiously and whining. At this point I realized that there were only two stalls. I was in one, and the other was out of order. The kid probably had to shit and was waiting for my stall to open. I tried my best to accelerate things, moving as quickly as possible. If I’m ever the cause of some little kid shitting his pants, I’ll have to go home and hang myself with piano wire, like a war criminal. He started really whimpering, and I restrained myself from apologizing and coaching the kid. “Sorry kid. I’m hurrying. It’ll just be a second. I’ll be right out. Hang in there!” I finished everything reasonably well, flushed and got out. The door opened and I could see the kid and his silent escort. They were two little black kids. The small, whimpering one was about four or five. His silent escort appeared to be his older brother, who was about ten. They went into the stall as quickly as I had exited. While I was washing my hands, I heard them talking and struggling to get situated. They neglected to close the door. The older kid said, “There you go, big baby!” I dried my hands, smiled, left, and thought about giving my little brother a call.

Haircut

I got a haircut today. I donated eight inches of hair to Locks of Love. The girl sat me in the chair, pulled my hair back into a tail and said, “Oh, look. I can take a good eight inches!” and I wanted so badly to make a terrible and hilarious comment, but I didn’t want to get stabbed in the face with the scissors. There was also a part of me that was scared that she might call my bluff, and then she’d discover that I didn’t have eight inches to give. Beyond all of that, I wanted to be able to come back and get another haircut in two years. So I didn’t say anything. She took eight inches of hair, and I’ve still got sufficient length to wear the remainder in a ponytail. It’s convenient that way. I don’t have time in my life for high maintenance hairstyles, or anything that will require a haircut more often that once every two years. I donate my hair, not because I’m nice, but because it’s a free haircut once every two years. This is the second time I’ve donated my hair. It’s always a remarkable feeling, getting all that hair removed. It’s a relief, kind of like a big bowel movement. It feels good, and for a while it allows me to believe that I don’t look like a caveman.

An Open Letter

It’s a mistake that we forgive the ignorant beliefs of the elderly. The excuse that they are a product of a different time is a poor one at best. There’s no excuse for bigotry. It doesn’t matter how educated or uneducated they might be. It doesn’t matter what historic catastrophe they’ve endured or how many years of manual labor they’ve contributed to humanity. Ethnic hatred is a crown exclusively for living, breathing pieces of shit. It doesn’t matter where they’re from.

I’m glad you’re 85. You will be dead soon, and the world will be a better, cleaner, more beautiful place in your absence.

The Sidewalk

Everything on the sidewalk is old and decrepit. The sidewalk itself, the people on it, the bus stop, the street signs, the telephone poles, and the rusty metal fence are all old and decrepit. The rusty metal fence is remarkably rusty, but only halfway. It’s rusty from the bottom up. Like there was a great pool of rust on the road, and a big truck drove by and splashed it up on the fence. The top of the fence is also beginning to corrode. It is, however, still partially painted green. It’s failing green paint, spattered with rust. Big chunks of the sidewalk have broken off and chipped away. In many places you can see the metal rebar that reinforces the concrete. It too is rusted, and looks like opened veins bleeding their contents out into the surrounding tissue. This sidewalk reminds me that one day I will die. So will everybody else on it.

My Nonno

There was an old guy at the gym who looked exactly like my Nonno. At least he looked like my Nonno did about 20 years ago, when he was still around, before he got sick. He was the same height and build. He had the same crew cut and slight accent, and he had the same distinct smell of coffee and Aqua Velva that you could detect from 20 feet away. I secretly hoped that he’d have some trouble with the treadmill he was using and start cursing at it loudly in Italian. He didn’t. I secretly wanted to go over to him and ask him to talk to me about working down at the steel mill. I didn’t. I also secretly wanted the weights to lift themselves, so I could sit and think in peace. They didn’t.