|The Blog|| |
|"Mean Old Man"|
posted June 23, 2006 @1:53p
On a street near my place, there lives a man. A mean, old man. Every few weeks, he comes out of his house to turn some type of terror loose on me. I'm not sure if I'm the only target of his meanness, but he unleashes it upon me whenever he gets the chance. Usually he'll yell and make crazy-old-man gestures from the side of the road or from his yard. Sometimes, he'll just step out in front of my moving car as if he thinks I'm traveling in a slower-than-life horse-and-carriage of his youth. He'll get in the middle of the road, stand on the double-yellow lines, and scream things at me as I drive by. Sometimes I understand his words, sometimes I don't.
It's very entertaining to me, so I just either smile and wave, or yell some type of jibberish back... something like, "HEEEEY BUDDAAAY!!!! I'm gonna see you an tha jah bo ramey with the wibber national gizzle bakery!!!"
My words don't slow him down though, he just keeps on yelling.
Well I was on my way out today, and I saw him ahead in the distance. I placed my foot in position to be able to slam the brakes, just in case this was one of those days when he tries to stop my moving automobile with his angry body. As I approach, he's staring at me, as usual. But this time, he wasn't yelling.
This time was different.
He's standing at the very edge of the road with the tips of his boots over the white line, in my lane. With his eyes, he attempts to burn a hole through my face. I think he's trying to see my soul. Just below his right eye, though, he has his hand held up: using his thumb and forefinger, he's making the shape of a handgun, pointing it's sights directly at my head.
I truly believe he doesn't want me to be alive anymore.
As I pass, the barrel of his imaginary gun follows my head, and he smiles slightly. This is the first time I've ever seen him smile. The thought of my passing away at his doing fills his heart with absolute glee.
I can't understand what makes people so angry, but I have to deal with it.
I didn't yell anything at him this time. I just looked in my rear-view mirror and pointed my hand-shaped gun right back at him. But I took it one step further: I pulled the trigger.
In Imaginaryland, gun bullets reflect off mirrors. I win.
..His skin is pretty dark this season. Mean Old Man is sporting a pretty impressive tan...
On my way back through, I roll my window down and prepare to shower him with bullets from my imaginary drive-by, but by that time he had already retreated.
We shall meet again, Mean Old Man. We shall meet again.
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