I’m not feeling overly clever today so nothing is coming to mind as to what I should write about. Hmmm. Let’s look through my “files” and see what we have. Ben is always a sturdy topic. My childhood has always proven to be a treasure trove of crazy antics. And my mind goes at warp speed 24/7 and almost always offers something of interest to talk about. But today?
I got nothin’.
I always loved my creative writing classes. Some days there would be a preassigned topic to write about and other days would be free-form. I usually felt comfortable with either exercise. But today without a preassigned subject to discuss…
I got nothin’.
I’m a bit depressed. Ben is sleeping off his cocktail of dilaudid and fentanyl that he has been getting throughout his antibody infusions. Occasionally he’ll bust out with some random statement, nearly always having to do with a video game. The first day he was pain-med-induced he talked at great length about the video game “Little Big Planet”. I wish I had a recorder to catch his musings. I’m sure he’d get a kick out of what he says when he’s (as he likes to call it) “confused”.
Man. You know what? I got nothin’. I’m tired. Cranky. Pouting. Agitated. Oh! Wait! That reminds me. I have something to talk about but it involves some foul language. So if you’re easily offended or just don’t want to wreck your pristine image of me, stop reading now.
I mean it. Stop now.
Are you sure? Okay, here goes. But understand that I warned you. And you cannot hold it against me. If I had a waiver available I’d make you sign it.
I had my first “verbal exchange” with one of the “Natives” last night. I was pushing Ben along in a wheelchair (it was our very first outing since starting all this antibody hooey) and had entered into a crosswalk. We, as pedestrians, had the white “walking guy” light so I was not jaywalking or trying to squeeze in a quick jaunt across the street while the “red hand” was flashing. I was well within the boundaries of crosswalk etiquette.
About half way into our journey, a fancy black car pulled into the crosswalk. He stopped. There was no one in front of him blocking his way but he stopped. Right in the middle of the crosswalk. He did not have the light. And while I would usually maneuver around such an inconsiderate ding-dong, I had no choice but to say “Hey! You’re blocking the ramp!” The man in the fancy black car gave me a nasty look while he waited for his friend to cross the street and get into the car. Mind you, he could have pulled up a bit. But he refused. He just sat there, staring me down. He could see that I had a wee little man in the wheelchair. A boy without hair. A boy fixated on his Nintendo game. And the jerk in the fancy black car didn’t give a sh*t. I stood in the middle of the crosswalk with an incredulous look on my face. At least I think that’s how I looked. I can’t be sure. So, I wheeled around El Jerko and popped a wheelie to get Ben up on the sidewalk.
I should have let it go but I couldn’t. “Jerk!” I blurted out as I gave him my best look of disgust.
“Yeah? Well, F*CK YOU!” El Jerko screamed at me as I wheeled my cancer-stricken nine-year-old down the street.
That was all it took. I snapped. And I yelled it right back at him. After about five exchanges of the same two words I turned my attention back to pushing Ben down the street. Ben, apparently oblivious (thankfully) to the verbal gunfire between El Jerko and his delicate flower of a mother, didn’t seem to be any worse for wear. I sincerely believe he was too fixated on his game to hear my foul-mouthed shenanigans.
But that Jerk started it.
I shouldn’t have let him draw me in. But I guess I just get upset when a situation that should impart a bit of compassion and a simple act of moving your car a couple of feet in order to get out of the way – I guess I’m just blown away by some people. Rude. Jerk. Whatever that man is so mad about in life, well, he should do some serious reevaluation. And perhaps a bit of yoga.
Personally, I hope he has to spend some time in a wheelchair. If only temporarily.
But here’s the pot calling the kettle black. I’m angry. I want to take it out on someone. I am usually a lot more reserved than what my actions showed last night but that was the final straw. Maybe my calling that man a jerk was his last straw? I have no way of knowing. Maybe he just got dumped. Or his mother never loved him. Or he just lost his job. Or, maybe he was truly just being a jerkasaurus. I will never know.
Regardless, my two words that I yelled at him should have been “LOVE YOU!” instead of my paltry comeback. I’m sure we looked like two idiots on the streets of NY, yelling F*ck you at each other. But maybe we just looked like two Natives. I mean, really. “Eff-you” is probably considered a completely acceptable greeting here in NYC.
And had I been yelling “LOVE YOU” as a retort to his “EFF-YOU”, I may have been taken in for drug activity. Who on earth responds like that except the drug-infused weirdo from Colorado? I guess I shouldn’t beat myself up over it. After all, “When in Rome…” . Ben still loves me and thinks I’m a delicate flower.
But when someone blocks my path and refuses to move, watch the “eff” out.