Granted, I didn't look this goofy!
I was rolling back from a session with a client on my blades. I was on the sidewalk because 53rd Street has a lot of patchy pavement and it makes for a pretty unpleasant roll. There was a fair amount of people on the sidewalk but I still was able to maneuver here and there.
I started to roll towards a couple of guys talking who didn’t seem to be aware of my approach. I shouted out something like, “EXCUSE ME.” The guy I needed to move a few inches did not look ahead and as I got a body length away, I realized that this squeeze would be tighter than the little boy’s ass I had to sodomize as part of my Catholic priesthood rite of passage when I was in seminary.
As we touched, I did my best to avoid a head-on by rotating my body and pulling my right shoulder back. At this point the hand knit puke green Rasta hat I had on my face fell over my face. I couldn’t see anything but I could feel the man tighten up and dig in like a football player throwing a shoulder. I could even feel that he was proud of his shoulder check.
As my feet came out from under me, time slowed down and, just like how it is said that the dying have their lives flash before them, I had a little review myself. My first thought was, “Good hit,” as being in the fight game for many years, one could always appreciate a good strike, even if it was your face on the receiving end of it.
Next I thought about my stretched out hat. I knew I shouldn’t have paid $25 for it but the street vendor who made it was cute and I was like a dope in a strip club thinking that the stripper will somehow find a man who pays to have a girl rub up and down on his schlong a catch that she just can’t afford to let get away. It seemed like I had a lot more time to reflect about inane subjects but I was kind of drawing a blank and so I thought, “Uh, nothing else to review now.” And then…
SLAM!
I landed on my back on the cement sidewalk, face still covered by my ridiculous didn’t-get-me-laid puke green Rasta hat. It didn’t really hurt but then again, I wasn’t sure if I was dead and about to meet my maker, which would be my Mom and Dad who would nag me about not wearing a helmet. I suppose that would be better than meeting God who would scornfully ask, “That was your life review?” to which I’d have no real response but to say, “Shit, negro. I’m just surprised I made it here instead of the other place!” to which he’d probably say, “Son, you ain’t staying here. I just had to meet face-to-face the man whose life review consisted of an appreciation for the impact that caused his death and reflection on a bad street purchase.”
When I pulled the stretched-out Rasta hat from over my face, the world looked anew. All my previous conceptions of up and down, left and right, right and wrong, were in a jingle-jangle-jingle. A couple of women looked down at me and asked if I was all right. I said yes only because it would have taken too long to explain that while I was capable of basic functioning in society, I was far from all right.
I then got up and looked back through the crowd to my ass-kicker. I shouted, “HEY, BROTHER! NO PROBLEM ABOUT THE KNOCK-DOWN, BUT WHY DON’T YOU AT LEAST ASK IF I’M OKAY?”
He turned around, looking annoyed that I delayed his progress to the local watering hole and said, “I did,” and turned back forward, never slowing down his pace.
If I were in my right mind I would have said, “AND WHAT DID I RESPOND?” To which he would say, “You didn’t,” to which I’d come back with, “THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU ASK ME IF YOU DIDN’T CARE TO HEAR THE ANSWER?” But I wasn’t in my right mind.
The shoulder check had loosened up something inside of me. As much as I would have preferred it to be a rib or something more tangible and manly, it had broken loose the feelings of aloneness I had apparently stuffed deep inside. And as it started to bubble up to my throat like a burp in progress from eating beans and broccoli and washing them down with some crab cakes [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hA7pWkQoAe0], I felt like I was going to cry. As much as I am secure in myself to be a man and also cry, I didn’t want to risk that I’d be standing back in God’s office and he’d be cracking his black ass up at my blubbering over being knocked down. “It’s a good thing you’re dead, bro, because you sure were a bitch!” So I just brushed myself off and rolled home. In truth, I didn’t brush myself off. I felt somewhat dead and buried as it was and I figured a little dirt on me was just par for the course.
I am somewhat of a loner in that I spend a lot of time on my own, which I like, and while I have good enough social skills and charm to be able to chat with just about anyone, from street urchin to sea urchin, there are only a handful of people that I would call my “friends.” I went through my cell phone address book and either the few I dialed didn’t pick up my call, probably too busy making another dollar for corporate America to help a friend in need, or I didn’t really feel like calling them because they would probably just give me a multi-tasking, distracted, wax-filled ear of duty instead of a focused, freshly Q-Tipped, clean ear of care.
When I arrived home, Abandon gave me some licks on my face and that helped a bit. But when I told her what had happened and how I was feeling she said, “I thought I was the little bitch in this relationship?” which I thought was a bit insensitive. I made a note to myself to limit her access to the Internet, as her daily readings of my un-blog coupled with catching up on the latest “South Park” and “Family Guy” episodes had made her a little more of a cunt than I really needed at this time.
Oh, if it were only this!
Wow that was sad and painful. *Internet hug*
I think an *Internet blowjob* will make me feel a little better about things