Delroy Dumbutt Goes To The Big City
Do you ever have one of those moments when life becomes surreal? You are going about the business of your day to day life and suddenly something happens that is ordinary, and at the same time truly bizarre?
Standing in the middle of a crosswalk, sun setting over my shoulder, traffic rapidly approaching from one side, the hustle of the big city all around me, and I find myself fixated on the oddly attractive young lady shooting close-up photo's of storm drain gratings with a 35mm SLR camera and a telephoto zoom lens. She sees me, smiles, turns with a half bow and a bounce that jostles the fluorescent pink stripe that she has dyed into her hair. She skips to the sidewalk on the other side of the road, and heads west into the sunset while I (still standing in the middle of the road like an idiot) almost get creamed by a screaming angry blonde soccer-mom driving a bright red 2004 Hummer with oversized tires and a lift kit. The vehicle is huge, almost the size of a bus, and all I can think as I'm standing there, nose to grill with this rolling tribute to modern consumerism gone wild is "Where the hell do you need something like that? I live on a dirt road in east bumfuck, snow and mud in the winter, 115 degree heat in the summer, granite, cougars, mosquitoes the size of small aircraft, packs of wild dogs, webfooted children playin nekked in the mud and chasin chickens, and I would be embarrassed to be seen in something like that. Where the fuck does this thing come in handy?". She's still screaming, making it very clear that the only reason I'm still alive is that she doesn't want to smudge her paint job. I take my bearings, and finish crossing the street in the opposite direction of the smiling camera girl, who has long since disappeared (possibly scared off by rabid SUV woman).
I'm trying to pull it together, wondering if I'm having a stroke, food poisoning, or possibly a drug flashback. I can't seem to shake the buzzing sound out of my ears, I feel a little queasy. As the angry soccer-mom burns out of the intersection, destroying tires that probably cost more than I make in a month, I glance up in time to see the little crosswalk guy on the stoplight pole go from white to flashing red. The smell of burning tires is doing nothing to help my nausea and growing sense of discombobulation.
I look down at my shoes, see the worn leather, the deep gouges across the toes offering just a glimpse of the steel beneath, the soles, retreads, worn to the thickness of cardboard, stained with mud and concrete, treated with bees wax and mink oil, grommets polished to a mirror finish on the inside of my pant leg. I understand that I don't belong here, thats why I only come down here a few times a year to get some of the luxury items that aren't available up where I am, and to stop by the local Costco warehouse. I know that I'm on unfamiliar ground, that (should I fail to respect the rules) the city will be just as hostile and unforgiving to me, as my home is to the tourists and transplants from the city.
The sun is going down, I'm fairly sure that my truck is parked three or four blocks to the east. I brace myself for the plunge, turn, face the sunset over the unfamiliar landscape, and head west, song in my heart, sun in my eyes, seeking a girl with a camera and a storm drain fetish.
Standing in the middle of a crosswalk, sun setting over my shoulder, traffic rapidly approaching from one side, the hustle of the big city all around me, and I find myself fixated on the oddly attractive young lady shooting close-up photo's of storm drain gratings with a 35mm SLR camera and a telephoto zoom lens. She sees me, smiles, turns with a half bow and a bounce that jostles the fluorescent pink stripe that she has dyed into her hair. She skips to the sidewalk on the other side of the road, and heads west into the sunset while I (still standing in the middle of the road like an idiot) almost get creamed by a screaming angry blonde soccer-mom driving a bright red 2004 Hummer with oversized tires and a lift kit. The vehicle is huge, almost the size of a bus, and all I can think as I'm standing there, nose to grill with this rolling tribute to modern consumerism gone wild is "Where the hell do you need something like that? I live on a dirt road in east bumfuck, snow and mud in the winter, 115 degree heat in the summer, granite, cougars, mosquitoes the size of small aircraft, packs of wild dogs, webfooted children playin nekked in the mud and chasin chickens, and I would be embarrassed to be seen in something like that. Where the fuck does this thing come in handy?". She's still screaming, making it very clear that the only reason I'm still alive is that she doesn't want to smudge her paint job. I take my bearings, and finish crossing the street in the opposite direction of the smiling camera girl, who has long since disappeared (possibly scared off by rabid SUV woman).
I'm trying to pull it together, wondering if I'm having a stroke, food poisoning, or possibly a drug flashback. I can't seem to shake the buzzing sound out of my ears, I feel a little queasy. As the angry soccer-mom burns out of the intersection, destroying tires that probably cost more than I make in a month, I glance up in time to see the little crosswalk guy on the stoplight pole go from white to flashing red. The smell of burning tires is doing nothing to help my nausea and growing sense of discombobulation.
I look down at my shoes, see the worn leather, the deep gouges across the toes offering just a glimpse of the steel beneath, the soles, retreads, worn to the thickness of cardboard, stained with mud and concrete, treated with bees wax and mink oil, grommets polished to a mirror finish on the inside of my pant leg. I understand that I don't belong here, thats why I only come down here a few times a year to get some of the luxury items that aren't available up where I am, and to stop by the local Costco warehouse. I know that I'm on unfamiliar ground, that (should I fail to respect the rules) the city will be just as hostile and unforgiving to me, as my home is to the tourists and transplants from the city.
The sun is going down, I'm fairly sure that my truck is parked three or four blocks to the east. I brace myself for the plunge, turn, face the sunset over the unfamiliar landscape, and head west, song in my heart, sun in my eyes, seeking a girl with a camera and a storm drain fetish.
posted by Murph | 12:29 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home