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Wake Up And Smell The Phlegm 1.27.98
There come those times in a man's life when the everyday pressures build to a point where the release of a little back pressure is inevitable. A man in the company of friends will be forgiven these small transgressions, perhaps a pat on the back with some kindly advice. Like--hey man, you need to get laid.
As a follow up to making a kid cry yesterday, today I verbally abused an indigent person.
I was over to Sam's place (the Magnolia #2) at Broad and Esplanade this morning at 6 a.m. to get a pack of cigarettes and as I pulled into a parking space by the front door I noticed this white bum sitting on the curb with his legs stretched into the parking space. I turned off my lights so as not to blind the old man and stopped halfway into the slot so I wouldn't run over his legs. Hey, live and let live, right? As I got out of the car, the bum raised his head and in some language similar to American English, growled a deep and phlegmy request. Considering the cold blowing wind, there was an unnatural stillness to the morning. I responded to this bum with more voice than I would have thought possible at this early hour, by saying--"Hey man, don't fuck with me," with a particularly harsh emphasis on the F word. I then walked in and greeted Sam, who was behind the counter. He was more than a little solicitous, and with pantomimes seemed to be asking me did I want him to go out and cap the no good scum who upset me this early in the morning. Sam is from Lebanon, and being so reminds me of the paternal grandfather I never met who also came from that country at the very end of the nineteenth century or the very beginning of the twentieth century and, like Sam, ran a grocery store, but in Austin, Texas, rather than New Orleans. Also, Sam's 21st century New Orleans requires that he keep a 9mm holstered to his hip, which, with the proper papers, is legal here. I pantomimed back to Sam (I guess I had used up all the really choice words already) to the effect, no Sam, let the bum live. "Have a nice day, Jim," Sam said, and I left the store. As I'm getting into the car one of Sam's unofficial employees is explaining to the bum about cause and effect, policemen and jail. The bum shrugs, as if to say--three squares and a bed, please don't throw me into that briar patch.
Thirty minutes later I'm on a refrigerated 24 foot ladder with another to my left and another to my right. This way if someone is down there to move my ladders I can just step sideways around the house without climbing up and down. The wind is kicking so fierce that the ladder to my left starts screeching against the brick, moving towards me. The ladder to my right is making the same noise, moving away from me. My fingertips are bloody and throbbing from the caulking I have done over the last two days. Mortar and brick dust broken free by the scratching ladder has found its way into my eyes. The hair under my hat is blowing wildly across my face and reciprocating strands of it are also sawing against my browns, which were already tearing up from the mortar bits scratching their way across my retina. Boss man comes around the corner, and with what vision I have left I can tell he is looking up at me. Careful Boss man, be very careful. I am fully loaded with the F word and I'm not afraid to use it. He said, "Jim, I got a hooded jacket in the van if you want to use it."
That was a close one.