Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Choking on a Bone

“I’m diggin’ up bones…exhuming things that’s better left alone…Yeah, tonight I’m sitting alone diggin’ up bones.” Randy Travis

It wasn’t a big bone, but it cost $150 and got hung up in my craw for two weeks. I had hoped to dislodge it somehow, but it just hung there in suspended animation, making life miserable.

It was a very common bone, one called a “bone of contention.” You’ve had ‘em, right? When it happens, we quickly find someone, or something, to blame, whereupon we resurrect that so-called “bone-to-pick” cliché, justifying ourselves but polluting our life.

Since blame for the bone is elsewhere, I found two perpetrators to persecute. (Well, I guess if I were honest, I might admit some fault. At least I was the one who was choking on the bone.) I even began to write my obituary, certain that this bone would finish me off for good. Here’s how it happened.

It was a dark, rainy day in the city. I was ready to head to the coast, to escape the “rap and hip-hop Mecca.” My sleep had been fractured, dream-induced, quite possibly from the garlic overload I’d had the evening before. I packed my bag, spun the cylinder of the pearl-handled S & W Special 38 calibre pistol and shoved it in my belt (Americans are armed to the teeth, you know). An orange sticker was pasted on the car window, “This Car has been Immobilized.” The two yellow boots stared in mocking scorn, “Gotcha, you idiot…park where you should!”

The car had been “booted” in the apartment complex of my Atlanta residence. I called and soon the “technician” showed up, saying, “Sir, that’ll be $150.” No amount of argument would convince this fellow of my rights as a tenant…it seemed I had parked one space from my assigned space. Small mistake. Now, let me say, no one knows the amount of rage or violent behavior possible in a normally humble human such as I. Read on.

I stepped back, advising the man to remain in his vehicle, which was also soon to be immobilized. The 38 held six rounds, one empty chamber, one for each tire, and the last one for the man if he stepped out. With vindictive glee I fired a round into each of the four tires on his vehicle, and with a swoosh it sank onto the concrete. I blew the smoke from the barrel. The man remained silent, in shock, frozen.

Now, pal, get out, remove those boots from my car…I have one round left, a lead-tipped hollow point with your name on it. While my 38 is not a Dirty Harry 40 calibre, it’s heavy-duty enough to make your day special, or, at your option, end it,” I said. He obeyed. When the boots were removed, he fled, along with my $150. That’s when I choked on the bone. “I want my money back, you swine,” I shouted to no avail. Sirens wailed, nearer. I sped away.

Suddenly I woke from that wild dream. What was I thinking? Would I have done this, and for $150? Possibly. But thankfully that part was only a dream. The bone remained lodged in its place.

I pleaded innocence to the apartment manager, who verbally assaulted the owner of the booting company (women managers are expert in this!), who promised to return my money. Days passed, no money came. The bone got larger. I continued to pester the owner and the property manager, reminding them I had rights and the possibility of violence if I didn’t get my money back. “It’s in the mail,” was the repetitious retort. The mail never showed, and my bone grew.

I sought advice from others. “Forget it, move on,” some said. Others, “Forgive.” Some rationalized, “Maybe the owner’s mother was dying and he needed the money.” Advice failed, the bone remained. Finally, with one desperate plea to the manager, I owned up that we all shared blame: the apartment for improperly marking the spaces, the booter for not recognizing my parking permit and me for parking one space from the designated space.

Funny thing about confession…the bone instantly dislodged. She called the booter, he delivered my $150, and I parked in the right space. After this misadventure, we all lived happily ever after.

Is there an epilogue? Possibly. Below the surface of the human psyche lurks extreme violence…be careful with garlic and loaded weapons!

Bud Hearn
November 12, 2009

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