I’m the fattest of the five people living in my flat, and undoubtedly eat more than any of them. With three big meals daily and plenty of snacks between, when I gotta go it’s never one plop or two, it’s a lot of plops, often more than the toilet can take. Gotta remember to flush halfway through, or I’ll have to plunger the plumbing afterward.
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This morning I forgot to flush halfway through. When the waters began to rise I plungered as fast as plungering is possible, but it spilled over and got the floor and the mat wet. After the plunger came the mop, and then I rinsed the floor mat, and now it’s hanging on the shower rod.All this has happened before and nobody’s asked about it, but still — damn it, Doug, gotta remember to flush halfway through.♦ ♦ ♦ Sold fish on Telegraph Ave today, and watched from across the street as cops frisked a young black man.They must’ve thought he was a drug runner, literally, because they made him take his shoes off. While the man stood in his socks on the sidewalk, one of the cops scrutinized the shoes one-at-a-time — loosened the laces, looked under the tongue, pulled at the soles, as if the man’s footwear might be hiding something illegal. Both shoes got a very thorough investigation, but nothing incriminating was found or planted, and after five minutes the cops left.He’d never complained, at least not loud enough for me to hear, and he didn’t even shake his head as he reshod himself and walked away. That man’s been through this before. If it wasn’t so wrong and offensive it would be downright silly. It’s a free country, so they say, where armed agents of the government are well-paid to examine a man’s tennis shoes.♦ ♦ ♦ The table next to mine was one of the Avenue’s marijuana booths, with pamphlets about legalizing it, and pot-centric stickers and buttons and stuff. Buzz is the man who runs that table, and he’s a little paranoid (stereotype alert) but he’s friendly, and sometimes funny. He once told me several minutes of offensive but funny Helen Keller jokes, so I kinda like the guy.Well, I was sitting in my chair scissoring fish from the mylar, and glanced up as a cop rode past on a 10-speed bike. He and I made brief eye contact, and the cop nodded at me as he wheeled past. I nodded back at him, just barely. It’s instinct, one of the slight social niceties.But suddenly Buzz was at my shoulder, and he asked, “Do you know that cop?””No,” I said. “Why would I know a cop?””Well, you nodded at him.””I nodded, Buzz, same as I’d say ‘nice doggie’ to a Rottweiler off its leash.”He looked cross. “I don’t like cops, man.””Hey, I hate cops, OK?””OK, OK,” he said, wandering back toward his table.See, in addition to telling people the health benefits of the demon weed, and collecting signatures for an initiative to put pot by prescription on the ballot, Buzz also sells delicious marijuana brownies on the Avenue. He’s sold me a few, but not today cuz I didn’t have two dollars.So some wariness is to be expected, but it struck me as amusing, so I jotted a few words in my notebook, to remind me to write about it later.Suddenly Buzzard was back. “What are you writing, man?” He sounded seriously concerned, semi-panicked.”I keep a diary, Buzz, so I take notes all the time.” He still looked distressed, so I handed him my notebook, open to the page I’d been scribbling on.”‘Nice doggie, Rottweiler’,” it said, and he said, but he still looked skeptical.”Turn the pages,” I suggested, and he spent a minute flipping through some of my pathetic pangs for Sarah-Katherine, the ingredients in various brands of cat food, a shopping list for tomorrow’s grocery run, and other stuff so boring that a lot of it won’t make it into the zine you’re reading.When he looked up at me I said, “You want to check my shoes, too?” We’d talked about the morning’s tennis-shoe inspection after it happened.
“No, I ain’t doing that,” he said, and looked at my notebook for another moment. “You take notes about everything, huh?””Yup,” I said, “but my diary is nothing to worry about, Buzz.” He didn’t seem quite convinced, but there’s only so much I can offer in the way of counseling services. ♦ ♦ ♦ Couple of hours later, as I was packing my stuff to leave, Buzz came back to my table and said, “Sorry, Doug, about giving you the third degree,” and he handed me a brownie, free of charge.”Oh, man — thank you! All is forgiven for a brownie.”
From Pathetic Life #21
Friday, February 9, 1996 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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