Humbly report that most anger mystifies me. It makes me itch. It hurts my head and it hurts my hair, which I don’t have enough of, largely because of how angry every is, and for no good reason! No more no more no more. Not me.
What’s the problem? you’re asking. Well how would you like it if you went out for a walk and some imbecile bumped into you because he was too busy jabbering into a phone? Huh? I know!
I’ll admit, I wasn’t paying as much attention as I ought–I saw a cloud in the shape of a marshmallow Peep, which reminds me–Easter is coming. Easter under the bridge is a rather sad affair, so perhaps I’ll think of something else.
Like the man that bumped into me. Now, any civilized person would just keep on with their walk. Perhaps exchanging a sheepish glance or saying “Sorry sir, oh. sorry.” At the least making eye contact. But once his stinky eye touched my own gaze I knew that this was someone gone mad. Some wretched. Someone who probably made a habit of snipping kittens’ whiskers and chortling like Jabba the Hutt while watching the poor thing run into walls.
Kittens are crap, actually.
Instead of saying “Sorry sir, oh sorry,” he looked up and shoved me. He put his wretched paw on my chest and pushed!
“You better watch yourself,” he said.
His hat was on sideways, which I wouldn’t mention except that it was made of leather. I like the smell of leather but the air pollution was so bad that I coudn’t even smell his hat, even as close as we were to each other. My aunt died in her sleep one night and my uncle still says it’s because of the air quality. He thinks that it’s because of aliens but I think aliens are too smart to use smog as a weapon.
“Why, because your hat’s on sideways?” I asked. I was not as speechless as I had thought.
He touched his hat lightly. One of his fingers had a silver ring on it. It was a pumpkin, but the pumpkin had a face like a skull. An angry skull. Listen: I’m not going to ever wear a ring with a pumpkin on it, I know that much. Especially not if I’m going out for a strut to bump into people.
“That’s not the only reason,” he said, sounding a little defensive. And then he just looked at me and blinked. I wondered vaguely what the other reasons might be. He smelled of syphilis–no, I do not have it, but life under the bridge can be grim–but that wasn’t really something to go around threatening people with.
Maybe he–oh, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.
“You’re not going to bother me no more,” he said. “No more no more no more no more,” although “more” sounded kind of like “Mo.” My grandmother once spanked me with a wooden spoon for knocking over the television when she was watching the Three Stooges. For some reason, when people say the word “Hairy” I don’t think of Larry, but “Mo” still reminded me of the bald stooge.
I went my way and he went his. I saw a kitten on the way back to the bridge. “You better watch your step,” I said, trying it out.
It felt stupid to say it.