Caterwauling

I was driving merrily along on Braddock Beach Boulevard, with nary a car behind me for miles …

When suddenly a big truck covered in Trump/Pence stickers practically hitches itself to my back bumper.

Meanwhile I have a string of cars in front of me, going nice and slow. But I need to turn right within a half-mile, so I am staying calm and put.

Well, as calm as I could with Crazy behind me. She was purposely gunning it and pretending to nudge around me and GLARING at me in my mirror.

When the turning lane appeared, I hopped over and looked to see her on my left. Pointing at my “Love Trumps Hate” sticker and shooting me the finger.

Classy.

I drive my half-terrified/half-raging ass to Starbucks. Where I meet a wonderful elderly fraud lawyer from Ohio who says business is booming because “There are more scumbags per square foot in Florida than anywhere else.”

You don’t say …

Interesting how I want to burn down the world and then get my faith in it restored within a timespan of 20 minutes.

I have zero idea how I have smart friends voting for Trump. 

At least I can explain the lazy people from school (and mom’s. Wow they cray up there)  who never amounted to much and had three husbands and 10 kids and expect to be taken care of. Clearly they don’t realize us Trump Twos will be deported so he doesn’t have to look at us. 

Everyone wants to attack the media for being too liberal. Which, here in this final stretch where no one cares about Trump’s Russia ties and the FBI obviously throwing the race his way, hell yes. I am glad the media is saying “Jesus Christ you illiterate fucks — don’t vote for him.”

I hate that the emails are still an issue. I hate that hate speech and nasty tweets are preferable to thought and strategy and agonizing over every decision, as those emails prove again and again. 

I never thought of myself as the literati. Unlike most Trump voters I know, I studied hard and worked hard and sacrificed everything to get a little success. I don’t get a handout. I don’t expect one. And I don’t go name-calling the other candidate because I actually can make a reasonable argument without looking like a petulant child. 

I wish one of my smart friends whose sensibilities have short-circuited can talk intelligently why they think a misogynistic, violence-inciting failure of a businessman and morally bankrupt human being should be the face of my America. 

This is not the year to “fix” centuries of politics. This is the year to make sure we aren’t shipping the gays off to concentration camps and allowing even more of a rape culture than we already have. 

I’m not sure though whether I fear that fool in charge or a revolt among the illiterati if he doesn’t. 

That’s not my America. I have every seriously been contemplating Cuba as a less-ridiculous regime to live under. Ponder that for a moment. 

Anyway. The good (or at least better) guys still have a chance to win. 

Let’s make America Clinton Again on Tuesday, people. 

OK, we know I woke up early and couldn’t access my computer so I drove in. Fine.

I go to Starbucks and say “Hey I’d like to use one of my many rewards.” I plunk down a salad, ask for a turkey bacon sammich and request my java.

My bill is WAY too much, I notice as I scan my phone.

Fucker said well you didn’t tell me you wanted to use a reward.

Fuck him — I’m going back to my old Bux up the street. This is BS, the one I am closer to now.

Then they ran out of turkey bacon sammiches.

I put everything back and said nice knowin’ ya.

THEN, I’m locked in the castle by myself when Paco the Painter lets himself in.

I thought he was nice at first. Introduced himself to let me know he’s here. He’s going to be doing some more work today and tomorrow. And could I use your bathroom?

I say sure. And am immediately treated to the biggest, stinkiest SHIT any human has ever taken.

IN ANY EVENT.

Then he wanders in and starts hitting on me. He likes white girls. He likes white girls my age, which he’s guessing is between 35 and 40. I think he said something about living in Boca and preferring girls with no kids. Hell if I can tell through the accent.

Now, my Trump-supporting friends would say send him back. But I’m a reasonable person and not into voting for a nutcase. And I fucking BLAME TRUMP for showing men how AWESOME it is to be so forward and crass with women that they can just do it in their goddamn sacred space.

He asked if I am here every day. I said I need to work now. He wasn’t happy.

He also asked if I were single. I said no. He said something garbled that I translated into basically “how taken am I.” I’m like dude, not married but not looking. Got it?

And apparently he’s living with someone in Boca. I don’t know. Can’t give a shit … not in public like he did anyway. Ugh. No wonder my attraction to men seems to wane with every passing year.

Thankfully I have locks on my door so he can’t get in here. I hope.

Utter and complete horseshit.

And I’m really hungry and undercaffeinated, too.

One day we will laugh about this. That day however is not today. As I choke on paint and poop fumes.

When the person who continually takes shortcuts and refuses to remember anything takes the shortcut that drags them under the bus that I’ve been struggling to keep from throwing them under. 

Irony is divine. 

What does that mean, exactly? There’s a Category 4 — possibly 5 — arriving in three hours. You’d think there was something more appropriate to say or hear. 

It’s like when you someone dies (only not among my friends, who will just ignore you), you say “I’m sorry.” Sorry for what? How does that improve matters?
It doesn’t. I know that. It’s just something you say, hopefully with the intent of making someone feel less alone. 

It’s a lonely life.  It really is. My governor is all over TV, saying that Hurricane Matthew is a “bonding time.” So check on your neighbors and get through this together. 

Of course, this is also the guy saying people are gonna die and his family is safe. Reminds me of someone. 

In any event, I took a walk today. Tried to speak to everyone. Not one person said hello back. Well except for the ducks. I had food and they were thrilled. 

I often carry on rhetorical conversations with these assholes. After I say hi and they ignore me, I fill in for them. 

Loudly. 

“Hi!” *silence*

“I’m great thanks. How are you?” 

“Good, good! You all ready for this storm?”

“Well let me know if you need anything. Stay safe and enjoy your day.”

“Fucker.”

Yeah. That comes out too. 

I don’t want to wish that every one of these deplorables gets washed off the coastline. 

But my friend’s husband got the call that FEMA is sending him here to rescue us, and I asked if I can pick and choose who gets saved first. 

Because if these fuckers can’t fvdn say hi, what makes anyone think they’d say thank you for keeping them safe?

There are people who annoy the crap out of me. To the point where all I need to do is hear a breath or some suck-ass comment out of them, and I want to stroke them lovingly with a shovel. 

Then there are the assholes who I choose to be around and they still disappoint me. You give them condolences on a death and they totally miss a passing that’s destroying you. But go on, keep posting political memes. 

Or now, with a hurricane the size of Arizona just 400 miles from my spindly house, by all means send me stupid shit or crack jokes if you even think of me at all. When I’m barely holding it together and having to step up/step in for people who can’t or won’t help me. 

I had no idea I had any friends left to lose at this point. I was wrong. 

Basically I need to hire friends and put them on my payroll so they are forced to choke down their ambivalence and shit out something helpful every now and then to prove they aren’t dead inside. Money talks, even if it’s full of it more often than not. And that’s ok enough. 

So basically with five lunch breaks left in the town I love, and about 47 restaurants I assumed before Monday that I’d still have time to try, I gots some eatin’ to do.

I ordered a salad from a place where Sia and I celebrated a happy hour or two. They decorate in Steeler everything for the fall season. So, feelin’ the love, right?

Well.

I could tell the gal wasn’t listening to me. I even said I’ll wait till she has time to focus to order. She insisted I order anyway while she cashed out someone else and made another person a cocktail.

But she did repeat my order back to me. So I waited.

Lucky me, a guy sits right next to me. There are maybe four people in the whole joint that seats 120. And he lights up cigarette after cigarette.

Now, we used to go there because we could smoke … in our smoking days. But it’s been a long time since I’ve had the urge. To go there OR to smoke.

Well naturally my order comes out fucked up. I mean, FUCKED. UP.

The server took it back to the kitchen. I ran after her to tell her I didn’t even want it. I mean, I had exactly 20 minutes for lunch because it’s a busy day. And I’d just spent the last 10 huffing secondhand Marlboro.

I could hear the kitchen guys yelling at her to LISTEN when a customer orders. They read the ticket right.

(Insert: I took Mom out for her birthday. We said absolutely no onions. The server showed us her pad where she underlined NO ONIONS. We got fucking double onions. I kid you not. The cooks only SAW the word onions. And I didn’t order the $25 dessert they were pushing since they’d probably put onions in that too.)

I’ve had quite enough of having to wait and pay and smile and be a good sport.

In fact, in my little notebook today, I wrote that it feels everyone’s job in corporate America is to be a good sport. First and foremost. The rest is so very secondary.

So I said no thanks. I only had so much time and I don’t have another 10 minutes. Gotta run.

And I did.

Went to one of the other 47 places I will miss. At this point I should have just gone to an event I had to skip because of how much there is to do today. The food was wonderful. Service left a lot to be desired. But getting what I wanted was glorious.

It’s too bad about the first place. The food looked BEAUTIFUL. Minus the dressing and the GALLON OF ONIONS on it. That I guarantee they would have just picked off. 

I notice when I’m leaving a city, everything starts to go wrong. Like it’s the universe putting its foot up your ass, Red Foreman-style, to make you not look back.

I will look back. I will pillar-of-salt look back. I will pine and do everything I can to come back. Just, not to these places that insist on shoving their onions in my face.

Was sitting at a red light here in Braddock Beach. Minding my own business. When BAM!

A VW rear-ends me. 

Mom was with me, and all her aches and pains. 

I was calm. Looked in my mirror and thought very long and hard about throwing Stewie in reverse and flooring it. 

Of course, my car is made of plastic and held together with gum bands and dreams. No match for that tank. So I threw it in park and stomped back to this fool. 

Horns honking. The light was green. Good for them. 

This dumbass didn’t even bother reversing. Or getting out of the car. Or reacting other than to say, “Are you really doing this?”

I said an apology would have been nice. But you’re no real man. So yes, we are doing this. 

He insisted his foot slipped off the brake. I said, “Onto the gas? Why the hell were you so close to me that it would matter?”

Long story short, Stewie is fine. Mom is fine. I got his plate and told him not to be in people’s back seats. 

This reminded me of being 19 and getting bounced in Wilkinsburg, Pa. The guy got out of his car and screamed at me to get back in mine. He was no doubt armed. I complied. 

Not this time.

This guy trailed me by a good mile after I drove away. Hope he thinks next time. I bet he will. He’d better. 

I was truly not looking for more reasons to hate it here. But they sure do seem to keep finding me. 

Because every time some fool who can’t be bothered to:

• like any of my photos, 
• say something nice in my time of grieving, 
• send a thank-you card or 
• otherwise give a shit that I’m still alive 

But who can jump down my throat at the merest insinuation that Donald Trump is not our savior …

And not even on my wall but rather in someone else’s feed which was where I was playing with the smart people …

Well. 

Sorry not sorry, but I have to defriend ya. 

Mom is pissed. This happens often. Last week it was someone destroying me because I was thinking about all the nice girls I met at a rally eight years ago … And I hoped they are happy and well. 

But sure. If that’s anti-Trump and you’re offended, bring back my friend and go take her place on the other side. Please. 

Anyway.

Momma is like, these fuckers aren’t your fathers. And even if they were, fuck them for crapping on things that are important to you. 

It happens off Facebook too. I get to hear opinions I didn’t invite because I wasn’t offering my own. I can only smile so much in a damn day, you know. 

I asked mom if I were wrong in offering a thoughtful opinion like, say, Trump rallying his fans to perchance use their second amendment rights to justify, oh, violence against his opponent is not funny. 

Literally. That was my comment. I don’t find it funny. 

Burn me at the stake, why don’t ya. Maybe that was the era that America was so great. 

In any event, mom tells me I’m smart and well-read and have my own mind and I use it. Oh, and did she mention fuck them? Because, fuck them. 

I wish my mom were healthy and could live forever. Because the world needs more of her and fewer non-friends who treat my very neutral comments as a reason to crap on me like I’m their personal litterbox. 

Don’t mess with my momma, fuckers. Because then I will really be about to throw down. 

Peace out, losers. 

I got a message from my h.s. friend last night:

“What was the name of that guy who used to hang around you? The tall one with all the hair?”

That made me smile.

I told him, “That’s a story for the ages.” And I left it at that.

It occurred to me later how I have such a small box of high school keepsakes. But a case from college and a whole storage unit’s worth from my career. (Before we went digital.)

I think that’s pretty proportionate enough to represent the weight each era should have on your life.

But so funny to be taken back in time like that.

As it turns out, he and I have friends in common. The recently rediscovered friend and I, not the tall guy with the hair.

Well it’s more like I’m close with the male half of a couple, and he knows the guy’s new girlfriend.

I admit I was curious to know what he knows about this chick. Social media may not be painting as favorable a picture as she deserves.

He was neutral-to-kind in his reply. I of course am a master (mistress?) at reading between lines. And I find myself wishing I didn’t ask at all, since I want so much to like her. 

Reminds me of how my friend (the half of a couple) felt about my then-relationship with the tall guy with the hair.

Pinhead, he called him.

A most-accurate description, I must say. I ain’t (and was never) mad at that.

He never told me what to do with Pinhead. He simply made it clear I could do better. When and if I was ready to do just that.

I guess we all have to make our own decisions.

And to live with them.

At any and every age.