Thursday, December 6, 2012

Glitter, as a wig

(I don't have any new pictures, sorry)

No time to write today. No time yesterday. That is how the days are lost. One at a time, then the rest.

Speaking of crackheads: The day before yesterday, when I was trying to leave work, a lively woman tried to help me. I'm trying to think how best to describe her... She had gold glitter attached to her head in a way that I didn't quite understand. She seemed to have somehow glued it on, covering a fair portion of her head, though not all of it, in a somewhat haphazard manner. There was no sharp line between where he hair started and the glitter ended. She was a crack-whore, probably still is. 

But my story... As I pull out of work there is a difficult intersection to cross to go home. The small street behind the office, which is little more than an alley, lets out onto one of the larger cross streets off of Market. There is always a lot of traffic and it is sometimes challenging to cross. She must have known this.

On this day, she decided she would help. She walked out into the middle of the intersection and began flapping her arms. In her mind she might have believed that she was directing traffic. But that is not how it seemed to me, nor could it have seemed this way to any of the other witnesses. Even though she was motioning towards me and screaming, "I am trying to help you, you dumb-assed cracker." 

She was black, by the way. 

That the traffic had already stopped to let me through had not occurred to her. Nor did it seem to occur to her that the reason I now couldn't cross is because she was in the road, blocking my way. I tried to creep forward into the intersection, inching around her. This is when I realized that she was perhaps being more enterprising that generous. 

"Hey baby, you want a date?"

"No. Get the fuck out of my way."

"What did you say to me? You GOD-DAMN, MOTHER FUCKING...."

An opening in the northbound lane magically appeared. I took it. I drove barely past her and turned onto the lane that begins the long drive home. I made it about 6 or 7 feet. Traffic was stopped.

She had decided to continue her sales efforts from the sidewalk on the other side of the street. But she still felt it necessary to let the whole world know what kind of person I was.

"That's right, you won't even look at me. You know I'll whip your ass, you GOD-DAMNED SON OF A BITCH. I try to help you, you MOTHER FUCKER."

On and on until traffic finally started moving, quadrupling her volume with each invective.

And to think, I whine about time slipping away from me. Her only concern might be that there is far too much of it between any given moment in the day and her next glorious exhale, when time ceases to matter.