The Summer Of My Shit Content
First posted on May 28, 2006
I don’t mind working holiday weekends. It gives me the perfect excuse not to go to all those stupid parties I’m invited to (note: if you’re reading this and invited me to a party, I’m not talking about you. I’m sad to miss yours. Now, back to the truth, I mean, story). But, for reasons I’m not smart enough to understand, they’re usually not calm, polite weekends.
It started when I got on the bus and this guy starts talking to me. He was talking to the bus driver but he got busy and I guess the guy’s speech dam wasn’t empty yet.
Damn my luck.
So he asks me where I grew up. Reluctantly, I answered Dorchester (it could have been Palm Beach and I would have been reluctant because I didn’t want to talk to this waste of booger). He said his uncle’s family lived in Uphams Corner.
Nice, nice, nice. Now please, I’m thinking, don’t ask me the usual stupid question which is, “Do you know. . .”
It may not sound like a stupid question but it is. It’s always some name like Mike McCarthy. And, although there’s a slim possibility I know a Mike McCarthy, there’s an even slimmer chance it’s the same fool because Dorchester is the largest section of Boston proper and, although you may not believe this, trust me, it’s true, every stinking corner in that rat hole has a Mike McCarthy!
But no. This guy surprised me. He asked me if I knew this place I’d never heard of in my life. So, I told him just that.
“Oh, that’s the lake in New Hampshire my uncle used to take us to.”
Brrrrrrrrrrrbbbbbbbb. WHAT? Did he think this was some secret Dorchester vacation spot? Like we’d leave our year-round shit holes, meet in Fields Corner and take the Edaville Railroad to our opulent, yet secret, summer spot?
Please. We’d unscrew fire hydrants and see how close we could get our faces to the stream before getting knocked out for a month. The emergency room, that was our vacation location.
And people question my thought process.
Remember, that’s just the appetizer. In ten minutes, I REALLY have to start my day. I’m hoping this encounter means I’m pre-disastered for the day. I don’t hold much faith, but you can’t blame a man for hoping. Scoff, ridicule, and belittle? Hell yeah! But blame, sorry, I think that’s just cruel.
I get into the building and being doing a check. It’s something I do every day but I really pay attention during the weekend. I usually spend my first half hour or so cleaning up broken bottles, empty bottles, nip bottles, and much, much worse. Trust me, you don’t want to know what categorizes much, much, worse.
What? You do? Okay, you can’t say I don’t do requests.
I’m checking the front of the building where the loading doors live. It’s usually a spot where I’ll find nips, paper bagged beer cans and, a couple of times a month, someone sleeping. But this time there was something less simply removed that made me (yes, me) wonder about the future of the planet.
Someone, who was obviously in some sort of discomfort if the generous spray they left behind was any indication, shat on and around the loading area.
Door five specifically.
And don’t try your useless reason here. It was not animal shit. I know that for a fact because, unlike some people who have a poster of animal tracks on their wall, I have one of animal shit.
And this wasn’t on it.
Finally, my day graciously ends. The rest of the day was filled with confused, clueless, smelly people. It was like being back in school but with less disposable income.
I’m walking up the hill to get home and notice a woman backing out of her driveway. I’ve seen her back out of her driveway on many occasions and it’s been uneventful.
This time, however, one of the crazy houses on the street is doing something else to their community driveway so has parked their car directly in front of this woman’s driveway.
As I’m watching this woman back her car while coming closer to this other woman’s car all I can think is, ‘Boy, she sure had other options as to where to park instead of directly in front of this woman’s driveway where she’s definitely going to. . .”
bip
“. . .hit her.”
And bip is as hard as she came into contact with this car. Have you ever been in a car and a breeze rolled over it? That had better potential to cause damage.
But that’s not the reaction of the woman who’s car was bipped. She comes racing up the hill, not a very attractive nor rapid event, screaming.
I calmly wait for the woman to put her car in drive to being to pull away. The moment I see an opening big enough to slip my legs through I’m up and out.
The woman driving begins her descent, the woman running is taking a short break. Not that it stops her from screaming at the woman who hit her car but none of this means anything to me as I continue on my trek home.
“Hey! You’re a witness! You saw her hit my car.”
I continue my forward motion and, without looking back, scream,
“I didn’t see shit.”
As I picked up my pace and found myself quickly home.
The first thing I did was check that poster.
I was right.
