I
can ride by homes with paint peeling off them, the lawn full of two
foot high weeds and see five unattended dirty kids fighting each
other on it. My middle class snootiness can come out and I think to
myself, “Ugh...you people actually live like this?”
And
I do suppose, if Bill Gates rode by my house he'd say to his
chauffeur, “My Dear God, Jeeves...would you look at that...do they
actually live like this?” I can see myself,
picking lint out of my belly button as he rides by in his Bentley.
Feeling
smug is great huh? You can pass judgment on all who seem below you.
I've
said before that I can sometimes really make a horrifically bad,
first impression if the cards are right, and I don't have to try too
hard either. I chalk that up to my spastic uncoordinated nature at
times. I walk into walls, trip on lines in the sidewalk and generally
do things too fast to be able to do them safely. Ask around, others
will back me up. Always on the go I can be.
My
brother, was ga ga over this one woman who was more sympathetic than
attracted to him (due to his sickness) for about two years. I never
met her as she rarely came over to the house and if so, I was out at
work or the like. But one day, we met.
That
late morning I was working on my car, doing the exhaust actually. My
mechanic's garb was a too small, filthy Army Field jacket. I kept it
because canvas is a great material to work in, you can abuse the hell
out of it and NEVER bother to wash it. The pants I wore were my “I
Don't Care What Happens to These Jeans” which were torn (some holes
in the 'right' places) and spotted with grease, anti-freeze and what
not. My sneakers were of the same category.
I
had to leave for the auto parts store to get a reducing coupling to
mate some exhaust pipe together and I come back, crawl under the car
and start the work anew. As I do this, I whack my forehead on some
protruding bolt and start to piss blood down my face. Ah well, par
for the course for me. I held the blood back till it clotted and
continued to work. I then find out I need a newer cutting wheel for
my drill and have to go in and downstairs to get one.
I
didn't know that my brother's flame, Angela, had come over. I went
into the house, my face caked with dried blood, my hair sticking all
around and in my possibly very odorous of stink clothing.
“Oh,
Angela, this is my brother Ron, I've talked about him before.” Ken
says.
“Hi
Angela!” I say.
She
stared at me. She stared at me with that “What the fuck just walked
into this house” look. It wasn't hard to miss that reaction on her
face. Did I care? Nope, I had other things to do and downstairs I
went to get the cutting wheel.
As
I came back up they were chatting away. Well, my brother continued to
chat away but she shut right as I passed them to the kitchen door,
again with that “I have met you and you stand convicted!” look.
It
looked like Angela and I weren't going to be the greatest of friends.
As
time passed, we'd meet each other on occasion, she was coolish to me
and I knew she had harbored few romantic feelings for my brother. It
was obvious to me but not him.
Flash
forward six months:
One
day I was visiting my brother in the hospital and as I walked into
the room, I stopped. I saw Angela there, holding his hand while he
lay there oblivious to the world, zonked to shit on morphine. I
stepped back some and watched this scene. I saw her face and it was
one of pain, sadness. It was real. I stood there perhaps 90 seconds
and realized she did have some feelings for the guy. I then noisily
walked into the room and she got up and hugged me. Wow.
Without
saying it, we both lowered our walls some, got to know one another a
bit better and realized we both weren't that bad after all.
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