cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

smear on the sidewalk

Today, while walking to the store to buy some lunch and carrot juice – always with the carrot juice, this phase has lasted years and I am beginning to suspect it is no longer a phase but a predilection – I neatly dodged a smear of shit on the sidewalk. I would call it “crap” or “doodoo” or “poop” but its color, its configuration, its flagrant disregard for methods of egress demanded that I call it “shit”.

My first thought was: who shits on the sidewalk? This thought was immediately followed by a memory so forceful I giggled aloud. A couple of years ago, FunkyPlaid’s car was stolen. It was an awful realization, standing in front of the house, staring blankly at the blank space. We thought, well, we will hop in my car and drive down to the police station to report it stolen.

That is when we discovered that my car, parked a block away, had also been stolen. But not really: after calling the city, it had only been towed, for what must have been a millimeter in a driveway. A millimeter, I swear to you, and this is only important in my former-driver’s sense of pride because I do not take liberties with parking rules. I was cautious, yet not cautious enough.

We took the N-Judah downtown to retrieve my car so we could go to the police station to report FunkyPlaid’s car stolen. It was not the best transit ride we could have experienced, and not Muni’s fault, for once. We were disappointed, unhappy with the outcome of our precious day off together, a bit demoralized about how our neighbors would treat us, and sort of hungry. At least, I was sort of hungry.

We were walking down the sidewalk in SoMa when a gentleman not entirely possessing of his faculties stepped in front of us, dropped his pants, and began to ooze shit. I say this because it was nothing so structured as a bowel movement, more of a Jackson Pollock than a Mark Rothko. I yipped like a purse-dog at the spectacle. FunkyPlaid had the foresight to steer me away and across the street. And then we fell apart laughing.

Hats off to you, sir, for that moment of levity on a dark day, and hats off to you years later for interrupting my day of awkward things with the memory of your unabashed soul.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

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