Thursday, May 24, 2012
A short story from 1977. Why am I publishing it? Just re-living a time when I could be macho and idiotic without worrying about death, I suppose. Also, I happen to be a proponent of handling problems in the most direct and expedient fashion available, and this illustrates that approach nicely.
When I was 20, an idiot driver continually came screeching around the corner on our side street and then traveled up it at speeds far exceeding the legal limit. The noise bothered me and so did the attitude. It was unnerving, and very dangerous to neighborhood kids and pets (I had a cat at the time, and I didn't like the idea of letting him outside only to have him flattened by some a-hole doing 35 or 40 in a 20mph zone.)
Anyway, after about a week of this jerk pulling the same stunt three or four times every day, I had had enough. I was sitting in my living room, watching TV, when I heard his car, tires squealing, on another street nearby. I sprang into action.
We had recently had a wall repaired on our property. The wall was constructed of cinder blocks which, if you aren't familiar with them, are big whitish bricks weighing about five pounds each.
I ran outside, barefoot and shirtless, and picked up one of those cinder blocks. I then sprinted into the middle of the street just as this moron's car was careening around our corner. I held the cinder block over my head with both hands, hopeful that the angry look on my face made my intent obvious: to throw said cinder block through the next windshield that came near me.
Brakes were hit, the car squealed to a dead stop, then the driver reversed gears, backed up off of our street, and drove away. He never came down our street again.
In case you're wondering, yes, I would have put the brick through his windshield. I was young, pissed off, and didn't give a damn. But I'm glad he had sense enough to back off.
And that's the story. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.
Soon, with more better stuff.