Desperately Random; Holding Out For A Hero

My father, much to the chagrin of my wife (some of the time) and my mother (most of the time), has passed more than a few traits my way. The enormous Easter Island head and butt chin notwithstanding, perhaps the most marked characteristic is my love of driving. Some of the warmest memories I have of my dad center around hopping in the car and driving across southwest Michigan. In particular, my dad had a habit of getting up early and still half asleep, heading out the door and into the car, often doing so with me at his side. I too understand the pleasure of waking first thing in the morning and conducting an ambling leisurely drive. The soundtrack sometimes calls for music, sometimes sports, somteimes NPR. While differing from my father in that my escapes are not done with the goal of procurring some sort of opiate, i do confess my morning drives are a subtle form of high for me. Like an alcoholic waiting in earnest for that liquor store to open it's doors, I begin to get an itch. I think of tasks at best menial and at worst ridiculous and brave the annoyed mutterings of my wife just for the chance to get out and drive just a little each morning. It's weird. I know it. I don't have a good explanation so I won't try and force a bad one.

The morning of my son's 6 month photos fell on a Sunday. I was especially antsy considering the benefit of skipping church was completely erased by the prospect of a morning spent at Potrait Innovations, a child and family photography studio that is unquestionably the most annoying place on the planet Earth. Potrait Innovations manages to be at once, an unlikley combination of creepy yet boring. Large photos of horrible looking families all attired in the same plaid sweater or white oxfords and dockers adorn the walls next to children of all ages,shapes, and sizes sporting poses and outfits that would give pause to the parents of Jon Benet. The photographers and assistants take one of two paths: First are the angry and bitter "artists," who wear the effects of spending 40 hours of their week with screaming children and frustrated parents while their artistic dreams are slowly and painfully dashed against rocks made from high pitched squeeky toys and Purell Hand Sanitizer. These broken artists are ten times better than their hyper-energized cohorts. These photogs are the true bane of my existence. I understand the job is to elicit smiles and guffaws from the drooling heaps of children paraded in and out of their doors. Pumped full of coffee and based on their mania, a significant does of methamphetamine, I recognize expelling all of that energy must be exhausting. I know because the energy expelled by not grabbing one of these people and choking the life from them is similarly impressive.

Knowing where I was going only added to my itch. Further multiplying this was the knowledge that trying to get out of my house without pissing off my wife would be herculean to say the least, and more accurately, completely futile.

As it turned out, the heavens smiled down on me intially. Perhaps it was my silent promise to God that I would go to mass every day for the rest of my life if I was allowed to skip Potrait Innovations but something divine stepped in and my wife granted me what would be a temporary reprieve from my problems

"Will you go to Quality Dairy and get me a coffee? You have to hurry though. We need to be there at 915."

I had my key in the ignition as the echo of her words still hung in our house. The thrill was shortlived. The joy of the getaway was buzzkilled by the spectre of the Portrait Innovations hellscape.

"What the hell are we doing at a picture studio at 915 on a Sunday?" I asked irritabily to no one; my annoyance compounded by being robbed of the joyous and fully sanctioned adventure.

I pulled into the QD and headed inside for the obligatory Diet Coke and Sour Cream Donut and was at the coffee dispenser when I first heard them

Loud and profane, my initial summation was that these were two friends talking loudly and probably processing the remnants of whatever cheap booze they had swilled together the night before. Curse words and hangovers were nothing new for this part of town and voices cranked to a volume of 11 were not uncommon. In short, they initially did not even register a blip in my Potrait Innovations fueled anger. Still not clued in to what was going on, I stood in line at the cash register.

Maybe it was the uncomfortable shifting of the patrons in front of me or the look of pure horror on the face of the cashier but slowly I realized that this was not a conversation between friends but open hositility between two strangers. Each progressive declaration grew louder and always seemed to start with the word "bitch." Being particularly adept to the subtle clues and nuances that come with passive dialouge, I picked up on the hostility of the conversation when one said to the other

'BITCH, I SHOULDA RUN YO FAT ASS OV-UH"
and the reply
'BITCH YOU'DA STARTED YO DAY GETTIN FUCKED UP THEN"

I stifled a laugh as I approached the counter and tried to complete my sale. The slight, effeminate clerk was not enjoying this in the manner that I was. He was clearly terrified.

"That will be two sixty-four" said the clerk, his voice only a whisper and drowned out by the ever escalating conversation. One of the women now stood behind me shouting at her counterpart at the back of the store some 30 feet away. The woman behind me was large and pale. Her dirty dishwater hair pulled tightly back gave an added sense of anger to her puffy enraged face. She sported the word thug tatooed on her doughy white neck. Despite my knowledge that it was wrong to do so, I quickly made my mind up on her. She was the pedestrian and was dressed in sweat pants and a t shirt one size too small, Her attire was more appropriate for a street fight and therein she held an advantage on her fellow combatant who , despite a filthy harsh mouth, was dressed in her Sunday best and was either headed to or from church. The driver somehow held a considerable size advantage to her enemy and the smart money was on the holy roller if things went south, which they quickly did.

"FAT ASS BITCH HOW YOU NOT EVEN SEE ME IN MY CAR? IT'S A CAR MUTHAFUCKA. YOU SAW ME PULL IN AND YOU KEEP WALKIN."

"THASSS RIGHT BITCH I AM WALKIN AND I GOT THE MUTHAFUCKIN RIGHT-O-WAY."

BITCH RIGHT AWAY MEAN SHIT. NEXT TIME I JUST HIT YO FAT ASS."

next time? how often are these two planning to do this?

I wheeled around and started to head out the door when my mind's eye saw the blanched face of the terrified teen age clerk who had no earthly idea what to do. I executed a 180 and stopped,waited, and watched as this war of words began raging towards something else. It was a split decision and clealry the correct one.

BITCH GONNA GIT HER ASS BEAT FO SHO

These, apparently, were fighting words as the Holy Terror rushed towards The Thug screaming like a banshee

WELL COME ON THEN MUTHAFUCKA-COME ON RIGHT FUCKEN NOW MUTHAFUCKA

The amped up aggression even gave The Thug pause as her resolved melted just for a second. Behind the counter, the whisper thin clerk's eyes grew wide as saucers.

Without thinking, I interjected myself between the two with a stiff arm motion to each woman. I instantly decided if this was going to work, I needed to be the loudest "muthafucka" in the room. I needed to sell crazy and sell it hard.

"ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT GODDAMNIT. KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF RIGHT FUCKING NOW."

The Holy slowed her roll just a bit and The Thug, bravery anew, steeled her resolve and began running her mouth.

BITCH COME ON THEN IF YOU GONNA

I wasn't about to cede any of the small control I gained and doubled down, quickly

HEY YOU. SHUT THE FUCK UP. GET YOUR SHIT. GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. NOW!
I pointed at whisper thin behind the counter , and planted the thought in his head since he was not moving an inch
THIS KID'S GOING TO CALL THE COPS IN ABOUT TWO FUCKING SECONDS. NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
There was a pause as The Thug considered her options. A sunday spent in Ingham County, the least appealing among them, The Thug uttered a few curse words and picked up her items
"Fucking Ridiculous," I added for good measure as she moved past me towards the door and staring The Holy down with her dimwitted gaze.

As I watched her amble across the parking lot, I felt The Holy brush quickly by me and headed her off at the past

Incredulous, I raised my voice

WAIT A FUCKING SECOND. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

"Imma go hit that bitch." It was a statement of resolute fact. I really think she would have done exactly that.

I made myself as wide as I could and blocked the door

"GET YOUR ASS BACK A FUCKING SECOND. DON'T BE FUCKING STUPID. YOU START OUT TO GET COFFEE AND A BEAR CLAW AND SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN PRISON BECAUSE SOME BITCH WALKS IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR? STAND THE FUCK BACK AND COOL DOWN A GODDAMN SECOND"

She too gave pause and also decided that a life sentence was not her best alternative and took a deep breath. I turned and saw that The Thug had rounded a corner and was far enough out of sight that if The Holy did indeed kill her, I would not witness it. The Holy moved silently past me, not so much thanking me for my common sense.

After all was clear, I strolled out the door. I wished like hell that I could fly, or at least had ridden a horse to the Quality Dairy. I got in my non-descript old man sedan and pointed it out of the parking lot towards a day that was somehow only going to get worse.