So I open the door to my apartment and this tall 50-something neighbor of mine Carl yells "Hey aren't you forgetting something?" and I look back and he nods to this pile of dog shit under the tree in front of my place and I look at it and go,
"Nope. Not really."
And he shakes his head and under his breath (but I could still hear him and he knew it) goes,
"Un-fucking real."
"You know I don't have a dog, right? You know that, right? I'm not allowed to have dogs at this apartment." by this time a couple other people were watching us yell at each other at a voice equipped to the 300-foot range at 6 P.M. There was an old fat guy with a mustache, wearing a tattered old grey shirt with a red car on it, and a middle-aged black guy with a thin beard in a blue jumpsuit painting the piss-yellow house across the street.
"Yeah, well. Yeah, well still" Carl went.
I didn't have the chutzpah to say 'still what?' so I deferred slightly, "Okay...?" I figured dragging out the long y sound was sharp enough a passive-agressive dart to his pride.
"Yeah well whoever's dog shit there needs to clean it."
"Yep" I agreed, pushing my door open with the back of my heel, ready to claim the mild victory. The painter snickered and shook his head, dipping his brush back in the can at the top of the ladder.
"Well," Carl stopped me from turning into my place, "well maybe you oughta god damn clean it since it's in front of your place, pal."
I held my ground on my "Bless This Mess" porch mat and fumbled to find the door handle behind me so I could slam it shut as I maintained Carl's distant hazel eyes. I took twenty seconds on each of the three steps down my blue-paint-chip-flaked porch, and walked towards Carl. He rapidly opened then balled up his hands as if to show his ability to use them, or at least get them warmed up. To show he wasn't afraid.
I walked across the street, not noticing shit brown the Chevy Celebrity barreling towards me piloted by a cheap-pearl-necklace laden old maid. Her brakes screeched and the car lurched into the lane next to me.
"Watch where yer goin' ye gat damn one watt" she sang to the ham sandwich she chucked out of her window, hitting me in the back of the neck. Carl was a little embarrassed for me. It seemed like a distant thought was behind his eyes about offering me a napkin but his mammalian brain kept his lips sealed.
I felt a thick residual sauce on my neck. "Mustard," I said out loud (I suppose in an attempt to intimidate Carl). "Stone ground mustard" I said, giving him slitty eyes. He began closing the thirty-foot gap between us at a fat jog and tripped over a cute piece of curb that was raised up 4 inches. The toe of his shitty old boot caught the hard asphalt lip and he went flying forward, hollering.
He couldn't have had worse luck meeting the ground. His nose smack-kissed the white-rock sidewalk and his head shot back twice violently. His white boat hat flew off and I caught it, left handed (not to brag, but my left hand is my weak hand). He rolled over onto his back and coarsely cupped his bloody face. All I could see was his chin, it looked like french vanilla ice-cream with cherry sauce on it. Maybe his stubble was chocolate sprinkles. I cursed the fact that it wasn't a Sunday, as I could not make a pun to him before I made my exit. You know, like 'Happy Sunday' or some shit like that.
No. I merely watched him writhe as I leaned against someone's black Subaru WRX and pretended to smoke a cigarette because it was that cold out. I said, "Well Carl...looks like you curbed your enthusiasm."
I still have piss-yellow paint on my hand from the high-five that followed.
