There’s a runner in the park I’d like to kill. You usually see him trying to woo women by showing them around wearing American flag shorts. It’s the only time I’ve ever wanted to burn the flag.
He likes to say things as he prances by like, you’re in the wrong lane lady, or you’re going in the wrong direction. I mean, who the fuck died and made him head of Central Park?
There’s a great expression in 12 Step – Don’t pick up the rope…meaning…do not engage because if you do the first thing going south is your peace so it better be worth the confrontation.
This man has been saying things to me for a very long time so yes, I finally picked up that rope twirling it like Buffalo Bill, and just like the Big Book says, my peace made skid marks possibly to Poughkeepsie.
“FUCK YOU YOU CREEP.”
Yes, my retort was very original alright, but what came to me later was how angry I was. I could have grabbed him by his scrawny neck no problem, throwing him into the bushes – a talent inherited from my mother who could have scared King Kong.
It’s 6:45 in the morning and there is no right or wrong way. The attendance is sparse at best since it’s still so damned cold, the seasonal joggers in their brand new running clothes some still sporting tags (another essay) have yet to make an appearance.
To think you have the right to direct someone is awfully arrogant, I don’t care if you are wearing the original 13 colonies across your ass.
My ire was so up smoke may have been billowing from my ears.
I turned and said, “Hey, asshole…if you harass me one more time, I’ll report you to the Park Police.”
Typical of all swarmy men, he ran away.
Like a boxer whose fists are considered weapons, my anger needs to be monitored and kept under wraps.