Shoelaces for Josie

Did I just call a baby killing an “incident”? I didn’t mean to. That sounded harsh and uncaring; not true. But maybe the kid has a better future ahead of him some place other than the ash tray of a wasteland he existed in for his short time here.

I haven’t seen Chip in awhile…shorty shorts/beer gut/serial killer look-a-like neighbor. It wasn’t his baby. It wasn’t Tattoo Guy’s either. He has a dog named Joker, but I’d guess that’s just a ruse to approach women. Why does it seem a dude out and about with a dog is safer than a dude just wandering around? A dog gives him a reason to be there, making our female logical brain conclude that there’s no other ulterior motive thereby letting guards slip.

And my other neighbors are old with like 80 grown children living with them. They all smoke a lot of pot, and in my experiences with the druggies of this world, where there’s dope smoke, there’s cocaine fire. Or heroin. Or ice. Or khat. (Eating the leaves of a khat shrub produce similar effects as ecstasy – it’s primarily an African-sourced drug so it often crops up in areas with an influx of African immigrants. If you care. Which you probably don’t. But now you know and maybe someday you’ll win Jeopardy! because of me.)

But my point is that my neighbors killed a baby, and that’s serious. And it’s not cool. Pick on someone your own size, man. At least pick on someone who can fight back. So I think I’m going to buy some nun-chucks and a bo-staff. And maybe a sword and a suit of 14th-century armor. Then I’m going to sit in my campfire chair in my dog pen, quote Shakespeare with Eminem rapping on my boombox and tell those baby killers to come bring it to L’il Red.

Last night, I was doing my best to build a pen for Doc. I was wrestling with wire and posts and pliers. It was like World War III had begun, let me tell ya. I should also probably mention that this fence-building extravaganza is occurring in a trailer park.

As I was mumbling and muttering like a half-crazed woman over my fencing project, a man came up. He had on the short-shorts special with a muscle tank showcasing his beer belly. He introduced himself. *Of course.* So I said hi, and he said he’d just moved here and it looked like I was too and, man, wouldn’t we be the best of friends? I have a terrible time with names. Zero luck with remembering them. I think he might have said “Chip”. Actually it was probably Jim or Donnie, but it’s too late – he’s Chip in my brain.

So I got the niceties out of the way and sent him on his doddering little way, and I went back to my work. Not 10 minutes later, a yellow lab lumbered up to me. I glanced up and there, in all his glorious tattoo-ness was…whatever he said his name was. I don’t have the slightest clue though his dog’s name is Joker. Fact. He had on those really cool mirrored sunglasses that wrap around the head. I could have flossed my teeth in their reflection. But I didn’t. I shook hands and said some crap about how if my dog ever caused problems to just let me know. I totally didn’t mean it, but I thought it sounded good.

We stood there a bit, shooting the bull, the whole while I’m trying to remember his name and then giving up. Finally I get him sent on his merry way, too, and I go BACK to what I had originally hoped to be done with.

Hour later

The wire kicked my butt. It’s just true. I was getting almighty cranky when Chip came wandering back over. He must have been watching me struggle from his window, because he asked if he might be able to help me or at least hold something. By the way, he had donned a different pair of short shorts and a different “I’ve-got-a-big-beer-belly” tank. Whoa, killer wardrobe. I thanked him, and maybe if he hadn’t had an eerie resemblance to what I’ve always assumed serial killers look like, I may have even said he could get the big job of holding the wire in place. But instead, I politely yet firmly sent him on his way AGAIN.

I can see Chip is going to be ongoing saga. So is Tattoo Man, I think. Not to mention, the folks on the other side are hitting on the top side of the pot scale if my snozzle isn’t playing tricks on me.

Me: “…ummm”

Coworker: “I mean, no offense, but you really, really look terrible today.”

Me: “Uh, thank you…”

Coworker: “You’re wearing a sweatshirt.”

Me: “Yes…”

Coworker: “It’s supposed to be above 90 degrees today.”

Me: “Yes…and?”

Coworker: “Man, you look like death. Really. No offense. You just look like crap.”

Me: *walking away down the hall*

Coworker: *shouting down the hall* “You should go home! You look awful!!”

However, I am polite. So I responded to his greeting and asked him what he’d been up to for the past however long it’s been. “Just dateing a girl and workin.” I cocked an eyebrow at the air around me. Did he seriously open up communications again just to tell me he was “dateing” someone?

I’m happy for him. Truly. He’s one of those types who is desperate for a relationship, and he’d been looking for one ever since before I’d known him. I’m glad he’s found one, and I hope it’s everything he ever dreamed it would be. But there’s a niggle of irritation that rises in me when a person elevates a relationship to such a high pedestal status that it becomes the only thing worth talking about and living for.

Unfortunately that niggle of irritation fueled my inner snarkiness which resulted in this text in response. “Wal, that’s good you’re dating a girl and not a guy. That’d be awkward.”

Yep, the conversation died shortly thereafter. I don’t think that’s what he was really expecting, but what else was I supposed to say? Congratulations? Buy condoms? Let’s grab a drink and celebrate this momentous occasion?

I get it, okay. I do. Relationships can be fun and rewarding. And when you find the right one, relationships are nothing short of amazing – at least 60% of the time. The other 40% of the time you’re angry they won’t throw their dirty socks in the laundry and can’t bother to notice the fact that you spit-shined the kitchen floor. But when you need someone to hold your hand, lift heavy appliances and pretend to listen to all your problems, someone is there. It’s nice.

My problem is when finding a relationship becomes the driving source of a person’s daily routine. And when a relationship does materialize, my problem persists when it becomes the central focus of a person’s life. They stop talking to all the friends they had before they started a relationship. They don’t make any decisions without first discussing it into the ground with the significant other. They rearrange their entire life, let go of their dreams, wait hand and foot on the one they’re currently connected to…these are extremes. I know that. Except that I’ve seen these extremes unfold in reality, making them seem far less extreme and much more…well…reality.

I’m happy for my friend though he’s probably more of an acquaintance now. I suspect the reason he stopped talking to me six months ago was because of the new development in his love life which is fine. Really. I could only handle so many dead car battery conversations anyway. But a part of me wonders if he was just looking so hard for a relationship that he took the first one that came along regardless of how it fit.

And a part of me wonders if eventually, some day, I’ll do the same thing. I’m a strong, independent person, and I don’t wander around looking for a relationship like some of the people I’ve known. But, the older I get, the more tired I get of having washing machines fall on my head, talking all of my own problems out and holding my own hand to get through the unpleasant things in life.

That’s right. A hawk and an owl were speaking or arguing or gossiping about the latest neighborhood news at such high decibel levels that I nearly levitated out of my bed. My initial reaction was that the British were coming. Once I swiped my hair out of my eyes and my brain was registering things at a more century-appropriate level, I realized that it was simply a hawk and an owl. Two great characters for a children’s book. Not a great setting for sleep.

They went on for well over an hour. AN HOUR. ! . I thought about watching television. I thought about doing laundry. I thought about stepping out on my back porch and yelling at them to shut up. Instead, I slammed my bedroom window shut (which didn’t help at all) and I stared at the ceiling until they finally desisted.

Suffice it to say I was not in the most charming of moods as I started my Monday. And then work…work, what can I say about you? In the midst of a myriad gigantic things tumbling about in the atmosphere, I discovered that in one of my co-workers international publications, I am listed as Eric.

In print, internationally, I am a man.

I internalize things, I suppose. Awhile back, someone got all up in my grill about my internalization, saying something to the effect of, “Dude! Why do you not talk about things? That’s not a good way to live life!” Psh, man, whatever…

Nature versus nurture – was I born this way or was I shaped this way? Some of this, a little of that, is my philosophy. It’s true, I don’t talk nearly as much as the valley girl down the street. I don’t bounce into a room, interrupt everybody’s conversations and dither on about something great that happened or whine at length about something ungreat. But it’s untrue that I don’t talk. I do. Sometimes, and lately a lot of the time, it’s just not to another person. Sometimes, it’s to Doc. Sometimes, it’s to the rearview mirror of White Flash. Sometimes, it’s to the computer. And sometimes, it’s not at all. Sometimes, you just can’t talk. Everybody has those moments. Most people have those moments anyway. I think.

Something good happened to me today. I haven’t told anyone yet. I will. Some day. But every time I reached for the phone to text Intern or call R or whisper some sort of “Hey this happened!” note, I’d erase my message, close the phone and go back to work. I guess today I just didn’t feel like talking. In a way, that makes me a little sad as I see this trend popping up more and more.

I don’t want to be that person who can’t ask for help when something bad happens, and I don’t want to be that person who doesn’t let others in on the excitement when something good happens. We need people in these lives we lead. We need people to support us and to be there with us, and maybe that is what frightens me. I’m scared to need people.

“You can’t blame football,” he told his son.

And you can’t. It’s tempting to question and wonder how things might have been different had this fellow not played football, if he’d been one step faster or played a different position. It’s tempting to wish he’d been into the clarinet or the cribbage club instead of playing a high-contact sport like football. But he could have just as easily been hit by a car in the crosswalk on his way home from his weekly musical jam session.

You can’t blame football. You just can’t.

And we can’t “blame football” for everything else that goes on in our days, weeks, months, years. The truth is, life happens. We have little control over some of the biggest things, and I can hardly fathom how the world looks from the point of view of a person who doesn’t believe in God. It can get pretty scary-looking from this side; I can’t imagine what it would look like if I didn’t believe in God.

What’s the alternative if we do start “blaming football” for all the bad things that happen? Murders and wars, diseases and death, rape and assault. The alternative is that you become afraid. You become afraid to live, to feel, to be the person you’re supposed to be. Life is full of risk, but sitting on the couch isn’t any way to approach it.