Thursday, August 05, 2004

Crazy Magnet Pt. II - Waste Management

I have a special place in my heart for old, bitter men - you know, the ones who wear pants hiked up to their necks; who scowl at you as you walk past, daring you to be friendly or say hello; who come after you for the smallest provocation - because, well, dammit - they're entitled - because they're old.

Before people say, "Ooh, he's an ageist. Man, he's going to become just what he hates - we all get old." Well, you're wrong -- I just signed a deal that will guarantee that never happens. I'd give you the particulars, but my business partner values his privacy; plus, it was kind of hard to find the office, which was surprising considering all the open flames and screaming. But I digress.

Seriously, I love talking to my grandmother; I liked visiting my grandfather when he was alive; I joke with the seniors at the polls. I enjoy hearing about days gone by and learning that life today really isn't all that different from yesterday. I'm a people person, dammit! But there's a subsection of the elderly that loves minding everyone's business and they will come after you with both barrels. And for some reason, it seems like the bitter old bastards are drawn to me like flies to stink.

Take Monday morning for example. Usually, when I walk the dog, I carry bags so I can clean up after her. Unfortunately, I forgot them Monday. I figured I would just come back and take care of it when I left for work.

We walked along the narrow strip of grass belonging to my reclusive neighbor -- you know, the shabby house on every street with one light burning, weeds peeking out from behind the fence and shingles falling off the roof - THAT house. And Trudy starts taking care of business. No problem - it's right around the corner from my house.

Then the car drove by.

The dark tan sedan inched by us and parked around the corner. It's passenger remained in the shadow of the building. I kept walking.

When we were about five houses away, I saw him get out, tall, with a t-shirt, fedora and plaid shorts. The dark socks and shoes complemented the outfit quite well. He grabbed a bag and walked over to the side of the house we'd just departed.

We kept walking.

I looked back when we reached the corner; there was the car, parked along the side of the street, halfway up the block. With his lights on.

We kept walking.

The car appeared at the corner we just rounded; it was parked, lights still illuminating the sunny morning. At this point, I began to feel like Christine was slowly pacing us, and at any moment, she would tear out in a squeal of smoke and rubber, plowing into us.

We kept walking.

The predator/prey relationship continued, until we reached my alley. We took off down the alley and into my yard. After I situated Trudy, I grabbed a bag and returned to the scene of the "crime" - there was nothing to be found.

I could see what was coming, and sure enough, when I climbed out of the car that evening, on the back step leading to my yard was the offending dropping. With a sigh, I cleaned it up, and went about my business.

Now, this guy followed me for two blocks while carrying a bag of dog shit in his car. He clearly was watching my house, because he dropped it AFTER I had left for work, so he probably saw me go back to the house to clean up the mess.

Don't you think that the well, SANE, thing to do here would have been confront me with the issue, so that I could take care of it myself, instead of stalking me and avoiding any confrontation?

That's because the man's insane. And therefore, he's drawn to me, like a magnet.

To be honest, I'm not sure he lives in the house he was guarding. I haven't seen his car since, because I wanted to leave him a note telling him not to be such a coward in the future - that way, he doesn't have to carry crap in his car for several blocks, but I haven't seen it after Monday.

I'm chalking this one off to crazy old man who has little better to do with his time, because frankly, I have better things to do than fight over someone over a single small piece of shit.

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