“Friend of yours?” I said to the delivery woman, someone else I’d
never seen before. The screaming guy stopped screaming, and seemed to be
listening to us.

“Nope,” she said. “He started yelling at me as soon as I got out of
my car, but I don’t know why.” The screaming guy continued screaming,
and she said, “There’s one more load,” and walked toward her car to get
the rest of my stuff.

Usually I’d just wait, due to the pandemic and my ordinary introversion, but this morning it seemed
wiser to follow her at a safe social distance. The stranger was
approaching her and I ended up between them, more out of luck than
intent.

“You having a bad day?” I asked him, cordially, and of course he
started screaming in my face. I was wearing a mask, and felt his spittle hitting my forehead. He wasn’t masked, and was furious about cars, parking, and tow-trucks.

The delivery worker put my last sacks of groceries on the grass between the curb
and the sidewalk, while the screamer was re-screaming about parking and tow-trucks. There was no tow-truck in sight, and the lady’s
car was properly parked at the curb.

I said “Thanks” to her, and she nodded but was understandably in a
hurry. She climbed into her vehicle, started the engine, drove away, and
the screaming guy took a swing at her car’s hatchback as it passed.
He missed, but his momentum made him stumble and fall.

Which was OK by me. I prefer having lunatics on the ground instead of
on their feet. I probably chuckled, then picked up my groceries and walked toward the porch,
but when I got there he’d hurried over and was blocking my way.

“You’ll excuse me,” I said, “but I’m going inside.”

“What if I won’t let you?”

I scoured my mind for a clever retort, but there was nothing, so I just looked at him. He was younger than me but not young,
with unkempt hair, and eyes wider than you’d want to see in someone
blocking your way.”What if I won’t let you?” he said again.Was he really challenging me to a fight, like in
second grade? Well, he was skinny and I’m fat, so he might land a few
quick punches, but eventually I could sit on him and crack his ribs. I’d
rather just put away my groceries, though.

I took a few steps off the walkway and
onto the lawn, then back to the walkway. I’d gone around him, and maybe
we were both relieved. Up the three stairs to the porch,
I unlocked the door, and he started screaming at me again. I put the bags I
was carrying inside the building, and reached for the plastic bags on
the porch. The two big bags made it inside, but a small box fell out, and he snatched it.

I stood on the porch, and he stood at
the foot of the three stairs. He was no longer screaming, but glared at
me defiantly, holding my yellow and blue box. “Those are my
suppositories,” I said. “They’re for hemorrhoids.” I was about to tell him he could shove ’em up his ass, but he screamed, “Fuck you!” and threw the box into the bush.I could
barely see it through the leaves and branches. It cost $3.19, and it wasn’t worth a fight or an
injury over that, so I shrugged, and just looked at him. He stomped off, shouting again about tow-trucks.

As he screamed off down the street, I was thinking, there goes
the looniest loon I’ve seen on this block since moving to Madison. But
he’s not much compared to the loons in San Francisco, when I lived
there. He’s a minor-league loon.

I carried my groceries in, put the frozen stuff in the freezer, and returned to the porch with my grabber,
“as seen on TV.” I reached over, snagged the box on my first attempt,
and I was about to return to my apartment when I heard a voice from on
high.

“Mike’s having a bad day,” said a voice from above. I looked skyward, and saw my upstairs
neighbor, on the tiny balcony above the tiny porch. Another annoyance. That guy spends most of his spare time on a a plastic chair on the balcony, unless it’s freezing, and it was a balmy 45° today, so there he was. We’ve been having very brief conversations for years, but I don’t like saying hello to him every time I pass under.He told me his name once, but I forgot it
instantly, so I just said, “You know that guy?”

“That’s Mike. He lives in the other building, drinks too much, and
likes to make trouble.” Our apartment complex consists of twin
buildings, so ‘the other building’ means that Mike the Screamer pays
rent to the same landlord we do, but he doesn’t have a key to our
building, which is a relief. “I already called 9-1-1,” said my nameless neighbor above, “and
I’m going to report him to the landlord.”

I stepped out onto the grass, so I could make better eye contact with the man upstairs. “That’s probably the right thing to do,”
I said.

And it was, and I might’ve called 9-1-1 myself, but it was a relief that I didn’t have to. I hate calling the authorities, and never do it unless there’s no other choice.

I thanked my neighbor, came inside, ate some eggs, inserted a
suppository, and thought about things.’Mike’ hadn’t hurt anyone, hadn’t even tried
to hurt anyone, but it was obvious that he’d wanted to. He’d taken a
swing at a car and missed, which was comical when it happened, but he
was plainly dangerous to the young, small woman driving that car. So yeah, 9-1-1 the schmuck.
An hour later, two policemen knocked at my door, and I hate it when that happens. I said “Let’s not” when they asked if they could come
inside my apartment, but with an open door between us, I described what had happened.After they’d left, I watched from the porch, with my neighbor on the balcony above
me, as the cops nudged Mike into the back seat of their squad car. I do not like dealing with cops, but it had to be done.

“Too much beer,” said the man upstairs, “too early in the morning, causes nothing but trouble.”

12/3/2020   
Republished 4/16/2024