This is what I imagine when someone out of the blue is rude to me, as if I’ve just gotten hit by accident being in the line of someone’s not so friendly fire.
It happens often…too often, the latest with Carmela, the basset’s, dad.
For those of you who don’t know, Carmela and her familia (they’re Spanish) are neighbors of mine and I’ve fallen head over high heels with Carmela aka Tubala, their one year-old basset hound.
Her father has always been very nice to me, so before I go on, just note I’ve given him miles of leeway despite his unexpected shun, a term my friend Amy taught me, meaning to be painfully ignored and avoided.
It’s a shame really, because now I won’t be so comfortable in his presence, the biggest downside of a drive-by shooting. You keep looking for that gun about to play a ra-tat-tat encore.
He shunned me when I bounded over to say hello, something I always do knowing if he’s out, Carm must be in close vicinity. Clearly something was wrong, but I truly wasn’t prepared for the chill I received.
He muttered something walking right by me like we didn’t remotely know each other.
As you know, I’m very thick skinned, which is why I wept for three quarters of an hour and called all my friends.
Camille will always ask, “If I told this to you, what would you say?”
“That he probably was upset over something and I got him at a very bad time?”
“Bingo,” said Sigmund Freud, “now let’s shop.”
Sensitivity is great for your art, but not daily life. I’ve been licking my wounds over this despite my, or rather Camille’s, trumped up clarity.
Transference I believe is what it’s called when one incident exhumes another, or hundreds in my case.
Rejection rises like a dust storm…all those times the guy didn’t want me, and when I didn’t get that coveted job. My mother makes a cameo telling me what a big nothing I’ve turned out to be, the very last words I heard her indelibly say.
Whoever thought that one sneer could be so concentrated having the thickness of crude oil.
“You’re a Cancerian Italian from Connecticut,” Camille reminded me when I said I was draping black crepe over the blazer I wore when I walked Carmela. “What do you expect?”
Yesterday while crossing the avenue, I notice this aging hippy on a bright red Harley stopped at the light smiling at me beneath his Cape Canaveral helmet. He looked as if he was about to lift off, right there on 80th Street.
Lo and behold, after doing my best…pretend you don’t notice…realized it was Carmela’s father looking like The Wild One, just four decades later. He’s seventy if he’s a day.
By the time I realized who it was, he had zoomed by.
Hmm, I thought, maybe now he’ll know what it’s like to be hit by shrapnel on a very sunny day when you least expect it.