Like Stink on a Skunk
Your word for the day:
• inconsiderate = rude, impolite
My ground-floor patio. It’s my day off. Bare feet, jams, t-shirt, foot stool, cup of hot coffee, ol’ Sol just now getting his freak on. Ohhh, yeah! I’m really feeling it.
A brief mental review of my accomplishments for the past week constitutes my own self-serving pat-on-the-back; then, I wallow in some serious day-dreaming.
I am a living, breathing hermit. I OWN the right to day-dream.
Some ask why I have not retired, possibly confusing living alone with being retired. I have continued to work the same 40- to 48-hour week I was working back in Y2K. If I am careful and stay away from mirrors, I am still somewhere near 40-years old.
But, that is not important except as evidence that I have lots of memories to re-live. Little things I observe today often send me back in Time to consider events long past. Like that tall, slim young man walking slowly past my view about 4 feet from my patio railing, and, about 2 feet from the bumper of that parked truck. Left hand held close to his face, he concentrates on images on his cell-phone screen. In that hand, he also holds the loop on a leash attached to a small, house-dog… all white with curly fur. Its butt pointed in my direction.
And, I am instantly transported to the 1980’s after I was discharged from the Army and had not yet gotten my own auto. Pending that acquisition, I got rides from friends or rode the Rapid Transit buses. Neither I nor most of my friends smoked, but, it seemed that half of the bus riders DID.
Old, not air-conditioned, and rattling windows typified the state of Houston’s Rapid Transit System. All windows were opened except on cold days. Women’s carefully coiffed hair was blown around, and, colognes, perfumes, and after-shave lotions were doomed challengers to the smoky stink. Hair and clothing became safe harbor for 2nd hand smoke. Of special annoyance, was the jack-ass sitting behind me who rested his cigarette-laden hand on the hand-grip behind my head, just inches from my face; I presumed that was to keep the smoke out of HIS eyes between drags. MY eyes and respiratory problems were none of his concern. (I was born in Houston, the home of allergens – need I say more??)
Surviving the bus ride, there were still the smoke traps in the office building where I worked. They were called elevators, and they were safe harbors for more inconsiderate bastards. Like cave men nursing embers to build a life-saving fire, they fueled their nicotine buzz at the expense of other passengers. The thick cloud of smoke and tobacco ash clung to everyone like a wearable ash-tray. Even the bold masculinity of my Old Spice after-shave got lost in the smoke stink.
Fortunately, after the smoking/cancer connection, and numerous civil ordnances prohibiting smoking in various venues, would-be smokers now seem to ask, “Do you mind?” before lighting up. That doesn’t help me back then, when smokers were totally inconsiderate of non-smokers, nor does it help me on my patio here. The jack-ass above me uses his patio as a smokehouse, sending his output down here into MY nose and MY living room. Oh, well, if life were perfect it would be called Heaven.
You may now be asking, “What the hell does an out-of-school-for-the-summer teen have to do with my un-fond memories of lung cancer’s hey-day and cigarette-butt stink?” Nothing… except that word “inconsiderate”… junior, there, does not have a poop pick-up bag.
In a couple of days, I will leave my apartment before sunrise (i.e., in the dark). I will tread that strip of grass between me and that bumper in front of my patio. I will get into the pick-up truck behind that bumper and, just minutes later, once again I will be the victim of butt stink on the way to work. Only this time, it will be canine butt and not cigarette butt.
The more things change, the more they remain the same… sigh!
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WORDS according to Dean 