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This week's britches

On my way to the john at about 2:30 AM, I stumbled on somebody's bike that's been beside my bedroom door for a month, and stepped on a brontosaurus bone the dog had left in the hallway.

Fumbling to find the light switch in the bathroom, I slipped on a glossy mail-order catalog someone had left on the floor, and would've tumbled if I hadn't reached for the towel rack, which I didn't quite pull out of the wall but definitely loosened.

"Mother fucker!" I said, intentionally loud enough to wake my flatmates. Then I peed like a fountain in Paris, so long and strong you would've been tempted to toss coins into the toilet.

Flushed, left the light on for whoever's next, and walked back to my room, pausing at the typewriter to bang these paragraphs before floating back to sleep.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

More genuinely awake a few hours later, another excursion like yesterday was the thing to do, but this time on foot. After zipping up the same britches I've been wearing since Sunday, I strolled the streets of Berkeley. You've never seen so many Volvos outside of a showroom floor.

First I walked to the library, to borrow a book they didn't have, and walked out with only a Bay Guardian from the rack at the door. It was an overcast morning, fine for reading the paper on the bleachers at the ball park down the street, but kids were playing baseball on the baseball diamond. Damned kids. So I continued walking.

Half a block further on, a wiener-dog came bouncing down someone's steps and started yip-yip-yip-yip-yipping at me. As a kid and younger man I've had and loved several dogs, but they've always been, well, dog-size dogs. I have no experience with a cat-size dogs like this one, a satire of real dogs, so I stood and smiled as it yip-yip-yipped at my ankles.

Guess I should've expected this but I didn't, and when it nipped at my pant cuffs I gently kicked the mini-dog back toward its porch. It came back at me again, still yip-yip-yipping, but now they were happy yips, like we were suddenly friends playing, and it wanted me to reach down and pet it. Sorry, little fella, but you nipped at my pants, so I'm not putting my fingers anywhere near your mouth.

Onward across the street, a sign announced in all-caps, "BEWARE POLICE." I certainly agree with that, or did until I ambled close enough to read the small print. "Buyers and dealers BEWARE,"  the sign actually said, "Your license plate numbers are being reported to the POLICE."

Oh my, that sign must strike terror into the hearts of hardened criminal drug kingpins and heroin addicts all across Berkeley. Being on foot and with no license plate on my butt, I should've waited for a dealer to drop by and made as purchase, as apparently this was a key corner for East Bay drug sales. 

The clouds had blown away, though, and I'd become a fat sweaty guy in the sun. Fat people sweat like a sponge being squeezed, so it doesn't take much sunshine to be too much for me.

Straightaway home I came, into this shady room, where I've opened the window, turned the fan on, and dropped my britches on the floor until tomorrow.

From Pathetic Life #16
Thursday, September 28, 1995

Addendum, 2022: I do miss that Parisian fountain. These days it's a leisurely drip from a leaky faucet.

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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