I wish I knew why.
I discovered it in the parking lot when we returned from an appointment. I hadn’t interacted with anyone — didn’t cut anyone off, didn’t look at someone the wrong way — so it’s hard to believe this was an act of revenge. Likely a random piece of shit, engaging in casual vandalism.
My Mini Cooper is one of my favorite things. I worked my ass off to have this. If you rear-end my car, hey, it happens. We’ll talk about insurance; we’ll work it out.
The cost here is mostly hassle: calling Allstate, getting an inspection appointment, getting the car fixed, $250 deductible, maybe a rental. But: the rage one feels at this sort of petty behavior is out of proportion. It’s because it’s so easy to do, to ruin a person’s day with a few determined scratches.
I am famous for being low-key and mild-mannered. Hard to anger.
But if you are the kind of person that does this kind of shit, randomly or out of some bitchy little passive-aggressive revenge complex, I want to hurt you. Physically. Forty-five years of bottled-up emotions means I’d feel no remorse at slamming an open hand against your head, see how hard I can bounce you off concrete, and keep hitting you until I am satisfied or bored with it. I want to do damage to you, far beyond what this will cost me, with no catharsis from it.
You are a hateful, meaningless insect. Fuck you and your useless goddamned life, for making me feel this way.
I wish I knew why.
Cause and effect. You will notice that this only ever occurs after having briskly kicked me in the groin.
Which I’ve asked you to stop doing.
… It’s not a day on Facebook until a white girl posts the word “ugh.”
I pace without purpose through our farmer’s market, dodging strollers, past the flowers and the vegetation and the fermentation. There is no one today with a clipboard and a question to ask me.
I stop into MorningsNights for iced liquid, saying hello to A, D and E.
A man is outside who looks like, plays left-handed like, has his hair bound up with a scarf like, sounds like, spot-on Jimi Hendrix. He is playing nothing but rare shit, while white girls wince and pass by. I drop a bill into his cup. He smiles and motions me to wait: “hold on, man. A song, a song.” He plays rarer shit, and I can see my appreciation glinting in his eye.
Sitting on his usual brick wall is the middle-aged Christ in clean, loose black, handsomely bearded. Nag Champa: two for five, with a free holder. I drive home, the car filling with the easy calm of new incense.
A moment to breathe: Achievement Unlocked
Okay, guess I should sleep. My story outline is mixing up its syncretism with its eschatology with its psychopomps. And there’s a Fimbulwinter in there somewhere. And angels on motorbikes. And rum flavored with gunpowder. *yawn*
You are the greatest person of all time. I regret only that you are anonymous, so I could thank you by name.
Many thanks for reading, and for the extra goodreads love. I just recently reformatted and touched up “Umbril’s Tale”, and am considering some form of self-publishing for it.
For the curious: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17448239-umbril-s-tale