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.

Drunk Grandmas

At the next table sat three round, grandmotherly-looking older women. Not ancient, but substantially over 50. They were talking about their retirement plans. They were talking about their professional lives and careers. They were clearly all educated and well-paid. They were talking about their kids who were graduating from college, now looking for work. The conversation led into their kids’ relationships. They were very frank about it all. Who their kids were involved with, and for what reasons. It was funny to hear. Then that lead into stories about their own sex lives from when they were younger. Speaking loudly, they may have been slightly drunk. They were all very happy to have been the right age during that ten-year gap between the advent of the birth control pill and AIDS. Apparently, everybody got very laid back then. One of them used to routinely fuck the painter that was repainting her house. All night long and very well, from what I heard. The other was twice divorced, and one of her ex-husbands was very proud of how well he knew how to use his tongue. She was recently fired from her job, and enjoying the unemployment checks. Right on! I know what that’s about. The other woman laughed quite a bit, and only contributed occasionally, but mostly tried to quiet down the other two.

An Ordinary Crucifixion – No. 8

The past few weeks we’ve been going to puppy classes at PetsMart, every Wednesday evening. The girls that work there are all very nice and friendly, and they love our dog. We’re always greeted on our way in. One girl seems to especially like our dog. She’s as big as a house, maybe two. Her smile is somehow even bigger. She’s a lovely, kind, gently smiling girl who gushes for cute little dogs. A more wonderful person you’ve never met. Every week, we enjoy seeing her and talking with her. At one point, she disappeared for two weeks. Afterwards, we saw her at the store again, not working. She was buying stuff and had her dog with her. It was a female and looked to be a Rottweiler and Labrador mix, pretty dog. It was very friendly and very excited. The girl was happy to see us. She explained with visible struggle that she hadn’t been around for the past two weeks because her boyfriend had passed away. The dog had been drowning in a lake, and he jumped in to save the dog. However, he ended up drowning in the process. The dog didn’t appear to understand the weight of that. The girl did, though. It was carved into her face. Now she’s got this dog to herself, and eventually it’ll die. And when it does, it’ll open that injury back up. I wanted so badly to help, but didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have any words that would make it any lighter.

Stepping In Poop

There’s never going to be any shortage of poop. I don’t think we’ll ever run out of that. It’ll be in abundance as long as we’re around. There can be no doubt that everybody, and in fact every living animal, produces it constantly, and you can’t get rid of it fast enough. Once you’ve stepped in it, you’ll never get it sufficiently cleaned off. It clings to shoes and feet like a space-age adhesive. If only it weren’t so repugnant, and had some practical application or monetary value, it might not be such a problem.