It's not easy for me to open up about things like
this, especially in such a public manner. I've always felt a bit of a need for
absolution... no, that's saying too much. I've always sought some sort of
vindication for my sins and errors, a way to prove my intent and legitimacy
without having to ask for forgiveness. If I can somehow justify these offenses
to others, perhaps that will assuage the feelings I refuse to label as guilt. Yet
in doing so, have I not already recognized said emotions as regretful, and therefore
owe a responsibility not just to those offended but to myself, to seek some
form of retribution? Is it possible for that level of self-reflection to negate
penance?
I may be getting ahead of myself here. What I'm trying to say is that I feel bad for taking a shit on that homeless guy's face.
Now I had a well-prepared defense completely mapped out for when the time came for me to own up to this indiscretion. There were all sorts of excuses and pressing manners and 'you-had-to-be-there' ramblings of Bullshit and Exit Strategies (copyrighted for my book on that Iraqi matador) primed to unleash at the first inkling of judgment from any listener or bystander or material witness. However, I now feel it just to simply state my case as openly and honestly as possible, in the hope that my candor will somehow allow my grief to fade.
So I was on my way home from a barbeque, consuming all that was left of the cheap whiskey and cheese popcorn I had been thoughtful enough to contribute to the feast (though I had managed to get away with the remainders of my own and several other's dishes), swerving with grace and ease past the slow-moving traffic and oddly placed pedestrians, when I was suddenly struck by the revelation that Jesus Christ I hadn't had a Star Crunch in fucking forever. I quickly pulled over to the nearest fuel depot/mini-mall, fingers crossed as I leapt from the car and bounded inside. Fuck yes they had Star Crunch.
I may be getting ahead of myself here. What I'm trying to say is that I feel bad for taking a shit on that homeless guy's face.
Now I had a well-prepared defense completely mapped out for when the time came for me to own up to this indiscretion. There were all sorts of excuses and pressing manners and 'you-had-to-be-there' ramblings of Bullshit and Exit Strategies (copyrighted for my book on that Iraqi matador) primed to unleash at the first inkling of judgment from any listener or bystander or material witness. However, I now feel it just to simply state my case as openly and honestly as possible, in the hope that my candor will somehow allow my grief to fade.
So I was on my way home from a barbeque, consuming all that was left of the cheap whiskey and cheese popcorn I had been thoughtful enough to contribute to the feast (though I had managed to get away with the remainders of my own and several other's dishes), swerving with grace and ease past the slow-moving traffic and oddly placed pedestrians, when I was suddenly struck by the revelation that Jesus Christ I hadn't had a Star Crunch in fucking forever. I quickly pulled over to the nearest fuel depot/mini-mall, fingers crossed as I leapt from the car and bounded inside. Fuck yes they had Star Crunch.
With a deserving glow of happenstance and glee, I
walked directly out into the dead eyes and putrid squalor of what one would
kindly refer to as a "bag lady" (though 'lady' seems a bit much, and
I saw no bags. Maybe more of a "trash whore". No, that's mean. I
guess she can be a lady. A lady-bum).
"Is that your car?!" she screeched through jagged nothings of Cold Piss and Cum-Rot (also copyrighted, for that overdue exposé on the bathrooms in Oak Lawn).
"Pardon?"
She took a step forward, then angrily shot out a bejeweled, cloven reptile wing (some drugs might have taken effect here) to signal my attention to the side of the building.
"There! Your car?"
There was my car.
"There my car" I affirmed.
Unsure of where this was going, I opened the Star Crunch and took in my surroundings. I had absolutely no idea where I was. As I peered back towards my vehicle, some things began to come into focus. One, the driver's door was ajar. Two, the engine was running. Three, there was a shopping cart lying on it's side in front of the car, with crazy homeless apocalyptic debris scattered from it in every direction. Then the lady-bum took my Star Crunch.
"Hey! Give me that back, you crazy old yeast mattress" I totally didn't say.
I understood what had happened, and figured the least I could do was let her get a chocolate fix. Apparently I had just walked out of the car without making the slightest effort to park, and it had rolled into her most precious belongings. No, it wasn't just cans.
As I righted the cart and sifted through the rubble, holding up various pieces of garbage to receive either the nod of approval or disavowal from the future Eliot Liebow interviewee, a haggard man walked up and began to assist me.
"Aw, come on now, you don't need to do that. She's always trying to pull something like this, I swear..."
He said some other things, but I was getting bored and was still hungry, and since he was picking everything up I went to move my car and open a beer.
I had a few hot dogs, and decided that the least I could do was offer one to the lady-bum, to whom I had only been known as some destructive force of chocolate, caramel crisp loving- god damn I wish I could've had that Star Crunch!
After I took a shot of whiskey and grabbed some dogs, I walked over and found that she had gone; vanished into the night, like a gypsy grocery shopper in a landfill of used diapers and tarnished dreams, who also maybe gives reptilian hand-jobs. Luckily the helpful man-bum was there, so we shared some wieners.
Here's the thing that's exceptionally great about giving food to the homeless: they really need it. I know that seems simplistic, but that's exactly what's so god damn beautiful about it. In a world full of massive, soul-crushing issues and perplexities mixed with colossal, catastrophic problems, it's still possible to be presented with a dilemma that is both immediate and easily remedied. This man has no food, nor money to buy any. I not only have some food, but am secure in the certainty of future meals. I give him some food, he lives another day, or at the very least experiences a modicum of rare satisfaction. Short term problem solving is usually the only kind we're blessed with achieving, so it warrants joy and a sense of accomplishment. It's like solving a crossword puzzle.
I did, however, end up shitting on a guy's face.
This is where the denial would come in, but alas, I simply must ask for your mercy. As extenuating as I could make the circumstances appear, there can be no excuse for such scatological treatment of what appeared to be a war veteran.
I think it's the popcorn that did it, though whiskey and wieners and being in a pool all day drinking ever-warming beer between mouthfuls of jalapeno chips and queso probably didn't help. My gut just started to bubble.
We had sat down together, the man-bum and I, on the curb to enjoy some frank-meat and frank talk. This was the sort of Steinbeck masculine fantasy I enjoyed to play out in evenings of inner-city drunken mischief and chance. Would we discuss the politics of being an urban nomad, or the intricacies of daily survival, or even just some kind of sports thingy?
No, he wanted to talk about these "Kardach-eyan" characters.
Now I don't mean to imply that a brief discussion about the Kardashian family made my asshole explode, but that just happens to be exactly what occurred. The distressed man-bum, between vigorous swallows of my under-appreciated gesture of communal beef, wouldn't shut up about whatever gibberish his sordid tongue had begun excreting, at least not long enough for me to scream "I'm-really-sorry-but-a-poop-star-is-about-to-supernova-through-my-cargo-shorts-fuck-shit!"
So I had to be rude and just run away. I slammed through the doors and frantically searched the Gas-n-Sip for a room where my ass could drip from percolation. Unfortunately, the station was not equipped with ‘facilities.’
I raced to the back of the building, shorts sliding off along the way, and finally experienced an ecstasy of relief over a massive pile of scattered garbage. Except that within that pile of garbage there lied a second homeless man, comfortably asleep, dreaming of a better life until someone came along and shit all over his face.
Me. I shit on his face. A lot.
I left before anything else happened. I really wanted to get home and shower, plus the other leftovers needed to go in the fridge. The original man-bum tried to yell something to me as I sped away, but I was too embarrassed and didn't really care what he said to begin with. That hobro-mantic dream was literally a fading image in my mirror as I journeyed onward into further depths of sullen shame.
So I guess the point is that that gas station really had a lot of homeless people. And they didn't even have a bathroom! Can you believe it?
Wow. I really do feel better.
"Is that your car?!" she screeched through jagged nothings of Cold Piss and Cum-Rot (also copyrighted, for that overdue exposé on the bathrooms in Oak Lawn).
"Pardon?"
She took a step forward, then angrily shot out a bejeweled, cloven reptile wing (some drugs might have taken effect here) to signal my attention to the side of the building.
"There! Your car?"
There was my car.
"There my car" I affirmed.
Unsure of where this was going, I opened the Star Crunch and took in my surroundings. I had absolutely no idea where I was. As I peered back towards my vehicle, some things began to come into focus. One, the driver's door was ajar. Two, the engine was running. Three, there was a shopping cart lying on it's side in front of the car, with crazy homeless apocalyptic debris scattered from it in every direction. Then the lady-bum took my Star Crunch.
"Hey! Give me that back, you crazy old yeast mattress" I totally didn't say.
I understood what had happened, and figured the least I could do was let her get a chocolate fix. Apparently I had just walked out of the car without making the slightest effort to park, and it had rolled into her most precious belongings. No, it wasn't just cans.
As I righted the cart and sifted through the rubble, holding up various pieces of garbage to receive either the nod of approval or disavowal from the future Eliot Liebow interviewee, a haggard man walked up and began to assist me.
"Aw, come on now, you don't need to do that. She's always trying to pull something like this, I swear..."
He said some other things, but I was getting bored and was still hungry, and since he was picking everything up I went to move my car and open a beer.
I had a few hot dogs, and decided that the least I could do was offer one to the lady-bum, to whom I had only been known as some destructive force of chocolate, caramel crisp loving- god damn I wish I could've had that Star Crunch!
After I took a shot of whiskey and grabbed some dogs, I walked over and found that she had gone; vanished into the night, like a gypsy grocery shopper in a landfill of used diapers and tarnished dreams, who also maybe gives reptilian hand-jobs. Luckily the helpful man-bum was there, so we shared some wieners.
Here's the thing that's exceptionally great about giving food to the homeless: they really need it. I know that seems simplistic, but that's exactly what's so god damn beautiful about it. In a world full of massive, soul-crushing issues and perplexities mixed with colossal, catastrophic problems, it's still possible to be presented with a dilemma that is both immediate and easily remedied. This man has no food, nor money to buy any. I not only have some food, but am secure in the certainty of future meals. I give him some food, he lives another day, or at the very least experiences a modicum of rare satisfaction. Short term problem solving is usually the only kind we're blessed with achieving, so it warrants joy and a sense of accomplishment. It's like solving a crossword puzzle.
I did, however, end up shitting on a guy's face.
This is where the denial would come in, but alas, I simply must ask for your mercy. As extenuating as I could make the circumstances appear, there can be no excuse for such scatological treatment of what appeared to be a war veteran.
I think it's the popcorn that did it, though whiskey and wieners and being in a pool all day drinking ever-warming beer between mouthfuls of jalapeno chips and queso probably didn't help. My gut just started to bubble.
We had sat down together, the man-bum and I, on the curb to enjoy some frank-meat and frank talk. This was the sort of Steinbeck masculine fantasy I enjoyed to play out in evenings of inner-city drunken mischief and chance. Would we discuss the politics of being an urban nomad, or the intricacies of daily survival, or even just some kind of sports thingy?
No, he wanted to talk about these "Kardach-eyan" characters.
Now I don't mean to imply that a brief discussion about the Kardashian family made my asshole explode, but that just happens to be exactly what occurred. The distressed man-bum, between vigorous swallows of my under-appreciated gesture of communal beef, wouldn't shut up about whatever gibberish his sordid tongue had begun excreting, at least not long enough for me to scream "I'm-really-sorry-but-a-poop-star-is-about-to-supernova-through-my-cargo-shorts-fuck-shit!"
So I had to be rude and just run away. I slammed through the doors and frantically searched the Gas-n-Sip for a room where my ass could drip from percolation. Unfortunately, the station was not equipped with ‘facilities.’
I raced to the back of the building, shorts sliding off along the way, and finally experienced an ecstasy of relief over a massive pile of scattered garbage. Except that within that pile of garbage there lied a second homeless man, comfortably asleep, dreaming of a better life until someone came along and shit all over his face.
Me. I shit on his face. A lot.
I left before anything else happened. I really wanted to get home and shower, plus the other leftovers needed to go in the fridge. The original man-bum tried to yell something to me as I sped away, but I was too embarrassed and didn't really care what he said to begin with. That hobro-mantic dream was literally a fading image in my mirror as I journeyed onward into further depths of sullen shame.
So I guess the point is that that gas station really had a lot of homeless people. And they didn't even have a bathroom! Can you believe it?
Wow. I really do feel better.
