I just wanted some donuts.
You know, the good ones. The ones you have to go downtown for. The sort you can sink your teeth into and easily pretend that they were not made with the same garbage ingredients as the ones at the chain two blocks from your house.
The day was bright and crisp.
Not crisp like a day old yeast donut, because that’s not really something I would know about. It was a confused cold sort of crisp, which happens when winter can’t decide if it should pretend to be spring or not. Your skin can’t decide it if ought to be chapped. The plants can’t decide if they should be dead.
The homeless man on the street corner appeared to be having the same debate as the plants. This man is a fixture of our downtown. He oscillates between mumbling and yelling at the imaginary person at his shoulder that is his constant companion and archenemy. He has a round body and wears a black trench coat even in the sweat-your-skin-off kind of summer heat we have. And he sometimes hovers at the edge of the sidewalk where he parks his shopping cart.
He hovers there, uncertain whether he is crossing traffic or staying behind. His body is in a constant state of swaying, making it difficult to tell if that is simply his version of waiting patiently or if he is planning to jump out in front of a slow-moving vehicle and win himself a broken bone or a concussion. His oscillating inspires everyone trying to turn at his corner to oscillate between mumbling “don’t do it” to yelling “Don’t do it!” Because, well, he is insane, and nobody can ever quite be sure what he will do.
“Don’t do it,” I mumbled as slowly the cars ahead of me safely made it by him and my turn approached.
Not to me. Surely there is someone else in this line that would be less freaked out by having to hit or nearly hitting a homeless man.
But everyone I could see through the rearview mirror looked like normal, kindhearted people with consciences.
And then I saw him.
I Knew He Didn’t Have A Soul Because His Truck Had The Redneck Lean
Alright, that might be a little harsh as a heading. He probably had a soul, just not a viable brain. In case you aren't aware, The Redneck Lean is when the front of the truck is raised up higher than the back. It's stupid, I know.
Truthfully, the people with viable brains in my society don’t call what he did to his perfectly innocent truck “The Redneck Lean.” Instead, in the name we put a specific redneck town that seems to birth a hearty population of rednecks and their trusty steeds. Innocent trucks are bought in other towns and brought there to that redneck town, where some mechanic version of Victor Frankenstein then mutilates them, and they are driven out with that embarrassing condition called The ____ Lean. Specifics matter not, because every region has their own version of this problem, so insert into the blank the redneck town of your choice.
You could hear him coming even with the windows rolled up, because it matters not how cold it is outside. People that follow The Redneck Lean lifestyle must abide by a certain code of conduct. As follows:
First, one must always have the windows down so that everyone within six blocks is forced to submit to young redneck music. Second, you must play that music that everyone over the age of twenty-five thinks sounds like someone shouting on a megaphone while using something electronic to morph their constant stream of farts into something that sounds vaguely like a musical beat. Thirdly, there is a strict dress code—camo, camo, and camo. Except the shoes—those shall be pristine white and an expensive name brand, because a young redneck man must show the world that he is not a person to be trifled with. And last, but not least, the young redneck must stare at people out of his window with a devious expression, like he knows he put a booger under your desk, because he hasn’t developed intellectually beyond the third grade.
The Light Turned Red And The Homeless Man Trotted Along The Crosswalk Nimbly
There may have been an audible sigh as all of us drivers released it in unison, but we don’t know, because no one could hear anything over the sound of Redneck Boy’s musical farts. Being the jerky character that he is, he decided to cut off a few cars behind me and zoomed into the lane next to me, and as luck would have it, he stopped right next to me.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look! Don’t make eye contact! Don’t do it…don’t…damn it!
Telling yourself not to look at the doofus idling next to you is kind of like telling yourself not to pop the bubble that somebody just blew right in front of your nose. It’s like telling yourself that you shouldn’t want to punch the redneck that put a booger under your desk. It is like telling yourself not to eat the last donut because it is totally fine if it goes stale overnight. You tell yourself, but you do the opposite.
Yep, just as suspected—there was a stupid devilish smirk on his face with eyes obscured by sunglasses that reflected me back. He cocked his head to the side to look more intently at me.
Oh my god, he thinks I like him! He thinks I am making eye contact because I think he is cool. Sweet Jesus, he thinks a woman of thirty-five would actually bat an eyelash at someone playing musical farts inside a truck that he intentionally deformed with his father’s money while dressed like his eyeballs are going skiing but his forehead is deer hunting!
I scanned the homeless man ambling along up ahead. He had crossed the road at that point and was going about his business while swatting angrily at the invisible person next to him. I shifted my eyes narrowly back at Redneck Boy, and then back again. Which was more insane? The man that happened to have a nervous tick that disrupted society inadvertently at crosswalks, and happens to also have an invisible foe he fights with because he can’t help it; or, a man who intentionally disturbs the peace by being himself, and has visible foes in every direction because he chooses to be obnoxious?
Clearly, Redneck Boy was more insane.
When I Looked Back Again His Smirk Had Deepened
It was pretty obvious he thought he was quite a catch and that I was a fisherwoman eyeing him hopefully with net in hand.
No!
I’m pretty sure I was just screaming internally. Pretty sure.
I will crush his ego! I will smash it into little tiny redneck pieces that will be unrecognizable except for the stupid musical farts they emit!
The light turned green and, predictably, he floored it out of there, because, you know, he is so cool. I listened as the sound of his farts became less and less audible, and the sound of my female Hulk-style breathing beginning to slow. I blinked as I started to see clear blue sky again, instead of just the red of blinding rage.
“You need to calm down,” I mumbled to myself. “My god, insanity is contagious. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
I successfully made it around the corner, with no homeless people in sight, and no stupid fart music.
I just wanted some donuts.
Thanks @kryptik for the invitation. Sorry if this is not very #fuckery. I’m familiar with fuck as a verb, and an adjective and an adverb, but I’m not sure that I have mastered fuckery. But here it is and now I’m going to go eat some leftover donuts.