Notes on Being an Asshole
I think I might be having the world's slowest heart attack. It's not a sudden pain or anything sharp and stabbing. It's more patient than that. It's just creeping up each day, little by little. Each day is a little worse than the day before but barely enough to notice. I once heard someone on television describe a heart attack like this: "It was like someone was sitting on my chest." But the person sitting on my chest is steadily gaining weight. He's probably got a sweet tooth. Cut back on the pie, Buddy! Or maybe she's pregnant. I know what you've been doing, Missy! When this first started, I thought it was dietary. Maybe an apple would help? Maybe if I cut back on something? Or maybe I'll just feel this way until I die. If I have the world's slowest heart attack maybe they'll give me an award: "And in the field of Slowest Heart Attack Ever, the grand prize goes to..." and the crowd would be full of anticipation, everyone looking around wondering who the winner would be, each person holding out hope that despite all odds it would be them. Then they'd announce my name. Sudden jolts of excitement aren't generally advisable for heart patients, but I'd accept the award graciously and without incident. I'm a real nice guy that way.
Often when I walk down the street I'm surprised that no one seems interested in meeting me. They just pass by unimpressed. They don't seem surprised to see me, nor do they want my autograph. They don’t want to know what I've been up to or if they can get their picture taken with me. When I first started to feel this way, I convinced myself that I had been painfully famous in a previous life. The paparazzi were all over me. I couldn’t fart without making headlines. It was great! But now even my greatest deeds, such as walking down the sidewalk, seemed to go curiously unnoticed. Weren't these people paying attention? I'm right here! I'd give you my autograph if only you wanted it.
Sometimes I feel like my entire body is made of diarrhea. Just beneath the skin, lonely liquid shit pulses through my body. Scientists say fossils are made slowly over time, molecule by molecule. The bones of the dead plant or animal are replaced by minerals over time, and then finally the remains are completely gone, only the minerals are left to form the petrified version of the once living thing. That's just what's happening to me, only my bones are being slowly replaced by my own lonely liquid shit. Lonely liquid shit for organs, lonely liquid shit for bones. Lonely liquid shit for blood. I hope a Tenderloin mugger doesn’t cut me open one night or he'll be in for a stinky surprise! Serves that fucker right; he shouldn't go around cutting people open who are made of shit.
There really are a lot of people in the Tenderloin. And they seem to come and go so quickly. One night sitting alone in my apartment I started thinking: How many people have lived in this unit before me? My building was pretty old. If there was a new tenant every five years or so, I figured that at least 20 or 30 people had lived in my apartment before me. I tried to imagine another lifetime, another era, another version of me. Someone lived here during The Great Depression. I wonder if they lost their job and then went off to die in Europe when World War II started. Someone lived here during the ‘60’s. Some hippie probably, dropping acid and going to protest rallies calling everyone “man.” I wondered how many people had had sex in my apartment. Any threesomes? Any really kinky shit? In the great history of San Francisco surely there must have been some hot gay sex in here at some point.
No beautiful women ever walk up to me and ask me to fuck them. They've had plenty of chances, but they've let their opportunity slip by time and time again. The dinosaurs lived for over one hundred millions years, but humans have only been around for one million years. Each individual human life only lasts about 80 years, and that's if you're lucky. Compared to the reign of the dinosaurs, I'll be dead in a matter of moments. Time is running out ladies, let’s get fuckin’!
My heart attack marched on, slow and steady as ever. If it was in a race with a hare, the smart money would be on my heart attack. I tried stretching and I tried deep breaths. Nothing seemed to able to control it, and it was getting hard to sleep at night. You just can't sleep with a pregnant woman sitting on your chest. Especially when she's getting bigger and bigger every day. Aren't you due soon, Lady?
I think my nasal cavity is leaking bloody snot down my throat and into my stomach, and from there into my personality. I used to be such a charmer, but now the diarrhea is making me weak. It's hard to stand up straight when you're made of shit and it's even harder to be charming. Often I have zits with a large red outer area and a big puss filled whitehead. Lately I've been getting really bad breath too. It must be the constant bloody snot dripping down my throat. Hey Ladies, come 'n get it!
I remember one time when I was ten I couldn’t stop talking. My Mom was laughing at every joke I told. She had a great sense of humor. We were in the car on a long trip to see my Grandparents. I was pointing out signs along the highway and making jokes about each of them. I was hilarious to begin with but I was really on a roll that day. I was the funniest person alive, I thought so and my Mom agreed. After quite some time of this my father caught my eye in the rearview mirror and said, "Listen. Either shut up, or shut the fuck up." I didn't know the difference, but I shut the fuck up anyway. He really missed some great jokes after that. Like there was this one sign that said Dave's Restaurant.
"Gee, I'd like to go in, but my name isn't Dave," I thought to myself. You missed another great one, Dad.
There was so much diarrhea today. I couldn't believe I still had anything left in me. How could I even stand? What was holding my skin in place? The hollow feeling would go away with beer and sleep, but that wasn't helping me now. If I had this much diarrhea today, what will be left of me tomorrow? I pictured my body as an empty shell. Just skin and hair on the outside giving the impression of a solid body, with nothing inside but stagnant air. Stagnant air from which sprang a never ending supply of liquid shit.
My heart is really struggling to keep up now. It knows it's fighting a losing battle, but it just won't give up. The world's slowest heart attack isn't an easy opponent, but my heart has a few tricks up its sleeve. When you've really spent some time thinking about the inevitability of death, it's almost surprising that hearts don't just stop more often. It's like your mind and your body are so disconnected they don't even speak the same language. Just a foot away from my heart, my brain knows death will come but it just can't seem to communicate this information to the heart. "Hey, you might as well just stop. Now's as good a time as any if you think about it." But the heart marches on. Nothing will distract the heart from the all important mission of living. Even now, as it struggles to keep up with demand, it somehow senses the importance of its work. It will fight till the end with uncompromising loyalty.
Today I had diarrhea once before work, twice during work, and twice after work. I wonder how much diarrhea I'd have to have before I went to a doctor? But I know what the doctor would say, so I'll just wait it out. Time heals all wounds as they say, and I didn't have any money for a doctor anyway.
When I first moved to the Tenderloin there were hookers everywhere. On my doorstep. Across the street. On the next block in front of the little park by the strip club. There was one lady with red hair that I always tried to avoid looking at. If you made eye contact with her she would lift her shirt to show you her boobs. Her boobs were huge but sagging badly. It was entirely unpleasant. She was quite overweight and unattractive. She had curly red hair and as a redhead myself I always felt betrayed when a fellow redhead behaved poorly.
I saw this redhead's boobs a dozen times at least. Not that I looked at her a dozen times, but whenever a passerby happened to look at her, up came her shirt. And her flashing was not reserved for pedestrians either, carloads saw her. Carloads and busloads. Busloads and carloads. One day as I left my apartment to get some beer, she happened to be walking right in front of me talking to two Middle Eastern gentlemen. "That's for both of you right?" And the Middle Eastern gentleman on the left indicated a Yes. "So, did you want to go at the same time or what?" I couldn't help but wonder if the Middle Eastern gentleman on the left wanted to be gratified along with his friend or separately, but I couldn't hear his answer as I turned into the minimart.
She hung around the neighborhood for several months, showing her boobs and getting the occasional customer. And then one day she was gone and forgotten. I didn't notice she was gone right away but eventually I realized that I hadn't seen her in quite some time. There were plenty of others to take her place, though none of them had the shameless abandon to flash passersby. I hadn't thought about her in many months when she showed up again about a year later. But where she was quite overweight before, she was now disturbingly skinny. When she lifted her shirt there were just ribs and pale hanging flesh.
I wondered where she came from. You don't just start out this way, something bad has to happen to you. Did she have family? Friends? Did no one on Earth care for this woman? Somehow it seemed that she was beyond help. I couldn't think of anything in the world that might help her. She saw me coming out of the burrito place and out came the boobs. "How about it, huh? It won't cost ya much."
"Get the fuck away from me you disgusting cunt," I said.
At work today the diarrhea was bad. Like I was peeing out my ass. Absolute liquid shit with horrible wet farts breaking up the monotony. Someone came into the bathroom to pee. Normally, when I'm shitting in a public toilet and someone comes in to pee or wash their hands or something I just sit still, making no sound. But this time the flood was on and there was no stopping it. I kept going and going, farting all the way. "Whoo-wheee!" said a voice from outside the stall. "You ok buddy?"
"Fine," was all I could manage. I prayed to God to let me just die right there and get it over with. Aw c'mon God, you have to let me die just this once.
How am I to sleep at night? I don't see it happening any time soon. Not with the pressure on my chest. Trying to sleep on my side just pushes my arm into my chest making it even tighter. I wouldn't dream of sleeping on my stomach. And on my back, I can feel a devil sitting on my chest waiting for me to give up. Waiting. Watching me. He's heavy. He's waiting for his chance. But I won't give him that chance, I will never give in to him. He's heavy and his breathing interferes with mine. He can outwait me because he will never die. I begin to wonder if there is anything good on television and then fall asleep breathing awkwardly.
I remember there was this guy Lucas in grade school. He was about my height and about my weight. Although we were the same age and we had similar body types he was faster, stronger, and much smarter. In fact, he was one of the smartest kids in our school. He was especially good at math. While the rest of our class did our math, he did more advanced stuff. He was way ahead of us. I remember he showed me his homework one time and the inclusion of letters in his answers scared and confused me. When we were in 5th grade doing our 5th grade math, he was doing 8th grade math. When we were in 6th grade doing our 6th grade math, he was doing 9th grade math. You get the idea. You're no Lucas, but you get the idea. He was also a really nice guy and everyone seemed liked him.
At our elementary school there were only two basketball courts outside. I loved playing basketball and I was really good. Our elementary school was pretty small, just a few hundred students. One day we were playing basketball at recess, full court. Basketball is a game that should be played five on five. You're no Lucas, but you probably knew that. Even at a small school like ours, there's usually more than ten kids that want to play basketball. We were playing full court basketball, nine on nine. It was chaos. Lucas was on my team and we were mounting the comeback of a lifetime. We were down 14 points and gaining fast, but recess was almost over. I knew we could still win, but I guess Lucas had given up. Pretty much our whole team had given up because every time a guy got the ball he just shot immediately. Facing nine defenders can make you shoot immediately. But the comeback was not complete, and I wasn't ready to throw in the towel. Lucas got the ball at half-court. I was open near the top of the key at the right elbow. That was my best shot and Lucas knew it. I called for the ball but Lucas shot wildly and comically, throwing the ball as hard as he could against the backboard. "I was fucking open!" I yelled. Lucas just laughed and said we'd already lost. "We haven't lost yet, there's still time!" I pleaded. He was obviously uninterested in winning. What's the point of playing if you're not trying to win? I thought to myself as I punched Lucas straight in the face. He was completely unfazed by this and proceeded to return the favor, only much harder and quicker. I'd managed to find something new for Lucas to excel at! I grabbed him by the collar and then he did the same to me. I thought of it first Lucas! We pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled. It didn't seem like I was going to win this fight any time soon. I began to look around to see if any teachers had noticed. None had. I looked around at the other kids to see if one of them would try to stop the fight but no one did. They just picked sides and started cheering us on; some cheering for Lucas, some cheering for me. What kind of fucked up society were we living in where no one tries to stop a fight? Finally Lucas gave me a good hard shove and that was enough to create some space between us. I wasn't about to get closer and Lucas seemed satisfied at having pushed me away. Recess ended soon after that and we went back to class. We lost by 14 points.
Could the diarrhea and the world's slowest heart attack be somehow related? Could there be a common cause? Or could one be causing the other? I went for a walk. It was one of the longest walks I had ever attempted. I went up Larkin for a bit and then headed west. I walked down Sutter for what seemed like an hour. I walked past Fillmore and I walked past Divisadero. Soon I was in the Avenues and I noticed something quite strange; there were flower pots in front of many of the houses here. Right on the sidewalk. There seemed to be no concern of theft or vandalism. People in this neighborhood just left potted plants out on the sidewalk and apparently no one fucked with them. I fought off the urge to smash a large terracotta planter containing three white lilies as looked around in wonder.
I was on California near 12th when I first noticed that my heart seemed to be beating normally. I breathed deeply and slowly allowing for the pressure to return but it did not. I touched my stomach, rubbing in big circles. I expected to feel the nausea of oncoming digestive issues but I felt fine.
I was miles from home and needed to get back soon. I had gone too far to walk all the way back so I hopped on a bus. A fat homeless man got on the bus at Masonic and sat in the seat in front of me. He had apparently shit his pants a few days ago and had been walking around with a fairly large amount of poop in his pants ever since. I got up and moved towards the back of the bus. I sat down next to a pretty young woman wearing a blue polka dot skirt and an old Rolling Stones tongue shirt. She let out a quiet sigh of disgust when I sat next to her. She got up and moved to another seat. I hadn't shit my pants, I was sure of it, but maybe I was a bit sweaty from having just walked from the Tenderloin to the Avenues on a warm afternoon. I stared out the window and tried to image how each person I saw would react to shitting themselves in public. Would one of these people kill themselves? Which ones would simply board a bus like nothing had happened? I decided right then and there that if I were to shit myself in public I would neither kill myself nor board a bus headed downtown, but something in between. Perhaps I would buy some flowers and place them in a terracotta planter on the sidewalk.
I think I might be having the world's slowest heart attack. It's not a sudden pain or anything sharp and stabbing. It's more patient than that. It's just creeping up each day, little by little. Each day is a little worse than the day before but barely enough to notice. I once heard someone on television describe a heart attack like this: "It was like someone was sitting on my chest." But the person sitting on my chest is steadily gaining weight. He's probably got a sweet tooth. Cut back on the pie, Buddy! Or maybe she's pregnant. I know what you've been doing, Missy! When this first started, I thought it was dietary. Maybe an apple would help? Maybe if I cut back on something? Or maybe I'll just feel this way until I die. If I have the world's slowest heart attack maybe they'll give me an award: "And in the field of Slowest Heart Attack Ever, the grand prize goes to..." and the crowd would be full of anticipation, everyone looking around wondering who the winner would be, each person holding out hope that despite all odds it would be them. Then they'd announce my name. Sudden jolts of excitement aren't generally advisable for heart patients, but I'd accept the award graciously and without incident. I'm a real nice guy that way.
Often when I walk down the street I'm surprised that no one seems interested in meeting me. They just pass by unimpressed. They don't seem surprised to see me, nor do they want my autograph. They don’t want to know what I've been up to or if they can get their picture taken with me. When I first started to feel this way, I convinced myself that I had been painfully famous in a previous life. The paparazzi were all over me. I couldn’t fart without making headlines. It was great! But now even my greatest deeds, such as walking down the sidewalk, seemed to go curiously unnoticed. Weren't these people paying attention? I'm right here! I'd give you my autograph if only you wanted it.
Sometimes I feel like my entire body is made of diarrhea. Just beneath the skin, lonely liquid shit pulses through my body. Scientists say fossils are made slowly over time, molecule by molecule. The bones of the dead plant or animal are replaced by minerals over time, and then finally the remains are completely gone, only the minerals are left to form the petrified version of the once living thing. That's just what's happening to me, only my bones are being slowly replaced by my own lonely liquid shit. Lonely liquid shit for organs, lonely liquid shit for bones. Lonely liquid shit for blood. I hope a Tenderloin mugger doesn’t cut me open one night or he'll be in for a stinky surprise! Serves that fucker right; he shouldn't go around cutting people open who are made of shit.
There really are a lot of people in the Tenderloin. And they seem to come and go so quickly. One night sitting alone in my apartment I started thinking: How many people have lived in this unit before me? My building was pretty old. If there was a new tenant every five years or so, I figured that at least 20 or 30 people had lived in my apartment before me. I tried to imagine another lifetime, another era, another version of me. Someone lived here during The Great Depression. I wonder if they lost their job and then went off to die in Europe when World War II started. Someone lived here during the ‘60’s. Some hippie probably, dropping acid and going to protest rallies calling everyone “man.” I wondered how many people had had sex in my apartment. Any threesomes? Any really kinky shit? In the great history of San Francisco surely there must have been some hot gay sex in here at some point.
No beautiful women ever walk up to me and ask me to fuck them. They've had plenty of chances, but they've let their opportunity slip by time and time again. The dinosaurs lived for over one hundred millions years, but humans have only been around for one million years. Each individual human life only lasts about 80 years, and that's if you're lucky. Compared to the reign of the dinosaurs, I'll be dead in a matter of moments. Time is running out ladies, let’s get fuckin’!
My heart attack marched on, slow and steady as ever. If it was in a race with a hare, the smart money would be on my heart attack. I tried stretching and I tried deep breaths. Nothing seemed to able to control it, and it was getting hard to sleep at night. You just can't sleep with a pregnant woman sitting on your chest. Especially when she's getting bigger and bigger every day. Aren't you due soon, Lady?
I think my nasal cavity is leaking bloody snot down my throat and into my stomach, and from there into my personality. I used to be such a charmer, but now the diarrhea is making me weak. It's hard to stand up straight when you're made of shit and it's even harder to be charming. Often I have zits with a large red outer area and a big puss filled whitehead. Lately I've been getting really bad breath too. It must be the constant bloody snot dripping down my throat. Hey Ladies, come 'n get it!
I remember one time when I was ten I couldn’t stop talking. My Mom was laughing at every joke I told. She had a great sense of humor. We were in the car on a long trip to see my Grandparents. I was pointing out signs along the highway and making jokes about each of them. I was hilarious to begin with but I was really on a roll that day. I was the funniest person alive, I thought so and my Mom agreed. After quite some time of this my father caught my eye in the rearview mirror and said, "Listen. Either shut up, or shut the fuck up." I didn't know the difference, but I shut the fuck up anyway. He really missed some great jokes after that. Like there was this one sign that said Dave's Restaurant.
"Gee, I'd like to go in, but my name isn't Dave," I thought to myself. You missed another great one, Dad.
There was so much diarrhea today. I couldn't believe I still had anything left in me. How could I even stand? What was holding my skin in place? The hollow feeling would go away with beer and sleep, but that wasn't helping me now. If I had this much diarrhea today, what will be left of me tomorrow? I pictured my body as an empty shell. Just skin and hair on the outside giving the impression of a solid body, with nothing inside but stagnant air. Stagnant air from which sprang a never ending supply of liquid shit.
My heart is really struggling to keep up now. It knows it's fighting a losing battle, but it just won't give up. The world's slowest heart attack isn't an easy opponent, but my heart has a few tricks up its sleeve. When you've really spent some time thinking about the inevitability of death, it's almost surprising that hearts don't just stop more often. It's like your mind and your body are so disconnected they don't even speak the same language. Just a foot away from my heart, my brain knows death will come but it just can't seem to communicate this information to the heart. "Hey, you might as well just stop. Now's as good a time as any if you think about it." But the heart marches on. Nothing will distract the heart from the all important mission of living. Even now, as it struggles to keep up with demand, it somehow senses the importance of its work. It will fight till the end with uncompromising loyalty.
Today I had diarrhea once before work, twice during work, and twice after work. I wonder how much diarrhea I'd have to have before I went to a doctor? But I know what the doctor would say, so I'll just wait it out. Time heals all wounds as they say, and I didn't have any money for a doctor anyway.
When I first moved to the Tenderloin there were hookers everywhere. On my doorstep. Across the street. On the next block in front of the little park by the strip club. There was one lady with red hair that I always tried to avoid looking at. If you made eye contact with her she would lift her shirt to show you her boobs. Her boobs were huge but sagging badly. It was entirely unpleasant. She was quite overweight and unattractive. She had curly red hair and as a redhead myself I always felt betrayed when a fellow redhead behaved poorly.
I saw this redhead's boobs a dozen times at least. Not that I looked at her a dozen times, but whenever a passerby happened to look at her, up came her shirt. And her flashing was not reserved for pedestrians either, carloads saw her. Carloads and busloads. Busloads and carloads. One day as I left my apartment to get some beer, she happened to be walking right in front of me talking to two Middle Eastern gentlemen. "That's for both of you right?" And the Middle Eastern gentleman on the left indicated a Yes. "So, did you want to go at the same time or what?" I couldn't help but wonder if the Middle Eastern gentleman on the left wanted to be gratified along with his friend or separately, but I couldn't hear his answer as I turned into the minimart.
She hung around the neighborhood for several months, showing her boobs and getting the occasional customer. And then one day she was gone and forgotten. I didn't notice she was gone right away but eventually I realized that I hadn't seen her in quite some time. There were plenty of others to take her place, though none of them had the shameless abandon to flash passersby. I hadn't thought about her in many months when she showed up again about a year later. But where she was quite overweight before, she was now disturbingly skinny. When she lifted her shirt there were just ribs and pale hanging flesh.
I wondered where she came from. You don't just start out this way, something bad has to happen to you. Did she have family? Friends? Did no one on Earth care for this woman? Somehow it seemed that she was beyond help. I couldn't think of anything in the world that might help her. She saw me coming out of the burrito place and out came the boobs. "How about it, huh? It won't cost ya much."
"Get the fuck away from me you disgusting cunt," I said.
At work today the diarrhea was bad. Like I was peeing out my ass. Absolute liquid shit with horrible wet farts breaking up the monotony. Someone came into the bathroom to pee. Normally, when I'm shitting in a public toilet and someone comes in to pee or wash their hands or something I just sit still, making no sound. But this time the flood was on and there was no stopping it. I kept going and going, farting all the way. "Whoo-wheee!" said a voice from outside the stall. "You ok buddy?"
"Fine," was all I could manage. I prayed to God to let me just die right there and get it over with. Aw c'mon God, you have to let me die just this once.
How am I to sleep at night? I don't see it happening any time soon. Not with the pressure on my chest. Trying to sleep on my side just pushes my arm into my chest making it even tighter. I wouldn't dream of sleeping on my stomach. And on my back, I can feel a devil sitting on my chest waiting for me to give up. Waiting. Watching me. He's heavy. He's waiting for his chance. But I won't give him that chance, I will never give in to him. He's heavy and his breathing interferes with mine. He can outwait me because he will never die. I begin to wonder if there is anything good on television and then fall asleep breathing awkwardly.
I remember there was this guy Lucas in grade school. He was about my height and about my weight. Although we were the same age and we had similar body types he was faster, stronger, and much smarter. In fact, he was one of the smartest kids in our school. He was especially good at math. While the rest of our class did our math, he did more advanced stuff. He was way ahead of us. I remember he showed me his homework one time and the inclusion of letters in his answers scared and confused me. When we were in 5th grade doing our 5th grade math, he was doing 8th grade math. When we were in 6th grade doing our 6th grade math, he was doing 9th grade math. You get the idea. You're no Lucas, but you get the idea. He was also a really nice guy and everyone seemed liked him.
At our elementary school there were only two basketball courts outside. I loved playing basketball and I was really good. Our elementary school was pretty small, just a few hundred students. One day we were playing basketball at recess, full court. Basketball is a game that should be played five on five. You're no Lucas, but you probably knew that. Even at a small school like ours, there's usually more than ten kids that want to play basketball. We were playing full court basketball, nine on nine. It was chaos. Lucas was on my team and we were mounting the comeback of a lifetime. We were down 14 points and gaining fast, but recess was almost over. I knew we could still win, but I guess Lucas had given up. Pretty much our whole team had given up because every time a guy got the ball he just shot immediately. Facing nine defenders can make you shoot immediately. But the comeback was not complete, and I wasn't ready to throw in the towel. Lucas got the ball at half-court. I was open near the top of the key at the right elbow. That was my best shot and Lucas knew it. I called for the ball but Lucas shot wildly and comically, throwing the ball as hard as he could against the backboard. "I was fucking open!" I yelled. Lucas just laughed and said we'd already lost. "We haven't lost yet, there's still time!" I pleaded. He was obviously uninterested in winning. What's the point of playing if you're not trying to win? I thought to myself as I punched Lucas straight in the face. He was completely unfazed by this and proceeded to return the favor, only much harder and quicker. I'd managed to find something new for Lucas to excel at! I grabbed him by the collar and then he did the same to me. I thought of it first Lucas! We pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled. It didn't seem like I was going to win this fight any time soon. I began to look around to see if any teachers had noticed. None had. I looked around at the other kids to see if one of them would try to stop the fight but no one did. They just picked sides and started cheering us on; some cheering for Lucas, some cheering for me. What kind of fucked up society were we living in where no one tries to stop a fight? Finally Lucas gave me a good hard shove and that was enough to create some space between us. I wasn't about to get closer and Lucas seemed satisfied at having pushed me away. Recess ended soon after that and we went back to class. We lost by 14 points.
Could the diarrhea and the world's slowest heart attack be somehow related? Could there be a common cause? Or could one be causing the other? I went for a walk. It was one of the longest walks I had ever attempted. I went up Larkin for a bit and then headed west. I walked down Sutter for what seemed like an hour. I walked past Fillmore and I walked past Divisadero. Soon I was in the Avenues and I noticed something quite strange; there were flower pots in front of many of the houses here. Right on the sidewalk. There seemed to be no concern of theft or vandalism. People in this neighborhood just left potted plants out on the sidewalk and apparently no one fucked with them. I fought off the urge to smash a large terracotta planter containing three white lilies as looked around in wonder.
I was on California near 12th when I first noticed that my heart seemed to be beating normally. I breathed deeply and slowly allowing for the pressure to return but it did not. I touched my stomach, rubbing in big circles. I expected to feel the nausea of oncoming digestive issues but I felt fine.
I was miles from home and needed to get back soon. I had gone too far to walk all the way back so I hopped on a bus. A fat homeless man got on the bus at Masonic and sat in the seat in front of me. He had apparently shit his pants a few days ago and had been walking around with a fairly large amount of poop in his pants ever since. I got up and moved towards the back of the bus. I sat down next to a pretty young woman wearing a blue polka dot skirt and an old Rolling Stones tongue shirt. She let out a quiet sigh of disgust when I sat next to her. She got up and moved to another seat. I hadn't shit my pants, I was sure of it, but maybe I was a bit sweaty from having just walked from the Tenderloin to the Avenues on a warm afternoon. I stared out the window and tried to image how each person I saw would react to shitting themselves in public. Would one of these people kill themselves? Which ones would simply board a bus like nothing had happened? I decided right then and there that if I were to shit myself in public I would neither kill myself nor board a bus headed downtown, but something in between. Perhaps I would buy some flowers and place them in a terracotta planter on the sidewalk.