I Hate You And Your Dog

I’m sitting here right now at my old junior high. On the metal bleachers I used to slip around on in my foul smelling P.E. uniform, weighing in at no more than 90 pounds. Adding 80 pounds to that only makes this thing that much more uncomfortable.

It’s a gorgeous spring evening. A warm breeze. The sun has another visible inch or two before it begins its dissent behind a sole house sitting atop the crest.

I’ve been back to Stanley probably five times now during this past year or so. It is the time period, epicenter of my past, where all the splinters and fractures originated.

I never come here haphazardly or on a whim. I sense when its time to drift back here with body intact to allow the bubbling up of emotions that have been under lock and key for the past twenty years. I’ve finally acquired the key. I’m learning how to use the fucking thing.

Today felt like the time to come.

I swung by Safeway before heading out, to dust off a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Heath Bar Crunch during my impending visit. That shit called me too. (How badly do you want some of that action right now, by the way?)

Sun is now hitting the house. Damn! That shit’s on fire. The occupants must have burned out retinas by this point.

So I stroll up with B & J in hand. I’m pretty damn fit these days. Some muscles are popping. Quite a contrast to the emaciated thirteen year old I used to be. No coincidence.

I have my headphones on. I’m listening to Sade. Just bought her Best Of… Album. That is sheer Fuck Music. You girls already know that. I’m catching up. A few more years and I will have solved all of your mysteries

I have my shades on and am now digging straight into my Heath Bar Crunch. No bent spoons. It’s pretty warm out.

I feel different today. I feel good. Almost sad, but very peaceful.

I begin walking down the halls. The orange glow of a waning day floods the corridors. Shadows from the trees and rooftops are stretched long and are a warm brown in color.

I’m aware that I don’t feel haunted by any memories. At this point no emotions are trying to tear themselves out of me.

I continue on. Damn the ice cream is good.

I take a few more turns down familiar bends and low and behold I see these two massive dogs tearing around the corner. Followed by barking and yelping and two humanoids who come a chasing after.

“Chauncey! Stop it! …Chauncey!” Voice raises on the the last syllable of the repeated name.

I am beyond annoyed by their presence.

I automatically change my course. I don’t even care to smile and say hello. I take a few steps in another direction and POW…three more dogs and three more owners.

Dogs and owners alike have that same ridiculous, painted on smiles. Maybe I’m reading into the dogs’ countenance, but I’m equally annoyed.

This 40-50 something crowd all dressed like the 40-50 somethings of a few decades back. Somehow missing the memo that this age group now is supposed to cloak their superfluous tree rings and look just as fuckable as the rest of us.

Not this group. Poorly fitting clothing. Jeans pulled way up with that crazy ass lump of fat in the mons veneris area. What is that shit? Is that really fat? Or is that some anti-fashion built in water pouch. A Camelback of sorts. (Not to be confused with some sick deviation of cameltoe. A Camelback is a water bottle pack thingy. I clarify for those who may still be living under a rock).

“Ha Ha Ha… Look at Chauncey.”

“Oh…Wow!”

“How old is yours?” -The painted on desperate smile shows no signs of cracking paint.

Overly cheerful, “Almost two.”

“Amazing!”

La la la. It goes on and on. The words don’t even matter. I take it in like the dogs take it in. A syrupy nothingness of unnatural sounds. It is the same droning on I’d hear in the coffee room at my old job. And now they’re armed w/ schnauzer.

Poor dogs. You’ve sadly been reduced by them.

Whatever.

This crowd killed whatever was to be released today. Thanks loads.

Now go pick up your florescent dog ball thrower and give the dogs brief respite from your chatter. The device is brilliant by the way, in that it enables you to partake in the game of fetch with your animal. Heaven knows bending over that fat pouch can be quite daunting.

Now fling away. Send that ball soaring. Let the ball thrower create a normal throw that would have been normally impossible given your atrophied arm and shoulder muscles. Go ahead. Enjoy the rest of your evening. You’ve screwed mine.

“Good Chauncey. Get the ball Chauncey. Ooooooh” Squeel.

Yuck.
BN