Exhausted being myself, I slept like a sated lover, deeply and dreamless. My bed of troubles hardened against me only at daybreak. The talented sun shone and rapped on my window. Night is done, dude. Sleeping done. I threw aside my sheets and sleeping doll. My right eye wouldn\u2019t open. I jumped off the bed and slipped on my flip-flops. In the bathroom, I scrubbed my eye with warm water and a toothbrush. It opened in time. I gazed out the window over the toilet. There, in my neighbour\u2019s backyard, two young men\u2014wearing green-and-white striped rugby shirts\u2014tossed a football between them. I wondered who the fuck they were.<\/p>\n
I stubbed my toe returning to my bedroom. My curses reverberated throughout the bungalow. Life is a hollow horse, but riding it hurts. I\u2019ve considered other ways of living, but I\u2019ve grown accustomed to the junk mail. It reminds me that although I\u2019ve been nudged to the margins, I\u2019m still part of the world. If people in general shun me, I think I know why. It\u2019s my face. It makes people uneasy. I remind them of men they know whom they dislike or fear. I use this to my advantage at times.<\/p>\n
The fellows tossing around the football sparked my annoyance. This happens all too frequently. I can\u2019t explain it, save to say I\u2019ve accepted it as part of who I am. Were I not so quick-triggered, I\u2019d be a different person, one I\u2019d probably dislike. But I thought that with everyone around me embracing and celebrating their uniqueness and individuality, why couldn\u2019t I do the same for my demeanour and temperament, for my genetic predisposition?<\/p>\n
Thus I stepped out to my backyard, wielding a red ceramic mug brimming with black coffee. Coffee steam rose aromatically as I crossed my lawn and watched the lads tossing the football ball. In their early twenties, they bore the earmarks of youthful vitality and hauteur, indispensable for the continuation of the species. I approached the wooden fence and stood there sipping my coffee. One of the lads turned and glanced at me but made no gesture of salute. He looked at his friend and offered a quip that prompted chuckles. What\u2019s so funny? I said. They said nothing and continued throwing the ball back and forth. I asked them who they were. Again they ignored me.<\/p>\n
I wondered if they were relatives\u2014nephews perhaps\u2014of my childless neighbour Sheldon. I knew he had a brother. Perhaps these were his sons. Are you Sheldon\u2019s nephews? I asked. Again, they were unresponsive. And while they shared a resemblance from afar\u2014similarly clad and clearly of the same genera\u2014upon closer examination, the resemblance proved superficial. For instance, the one with his back to me had reddish hair while his mate\u2019s was jet black. Also, the latter had a weak chin in contrast to the redhead, whose face reminded me of a Jeep.<\/p>\n
If you\u2019re his nephews, I said, I\u2019d like to introduce myself. I\u2019m Sam, friends call me Sammy, as does your uncle. The guys continued playing catch as if I\u2019d said nothing. I didn\u2019t want to shout. Perhaps they were just rude. A commonplace these days, rudeness. I wondered if they were actually intruders, break-and-enter guys, squatters, arsonists, or even terrorists. But why\u2019d they be tossing a football?<\/p>\n
It was a lovely day. Bluest of skies, nary a cloud, and a light breeze scented like a minty air freshener. Made one feel good to be alive. I sipped my delicious coffee\u2014I\u2019d outdone myself with the French press that morning. Sometimes you just nail a thing. I wouldn\u2019t let these indifferent young men interfere with my felicity. Just as I sank into the moment, the football came wobbling over the fence and knocked the mug out of my hand.<\/p>\n
Not only did the coffee spill all over the lawn, but the mug must have struck a stone and had shattered into red and white shards. The duo now stood there staring at me, hands on hips, accusatory. I glanced at the football, lying near my cement birdbath, and walked to it. I picked it up and gripped it across the laces. Then I gave a little pump fake. Of course, it drew no reaction.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m never without my trusty Swiss Army knife\u2014 aka the Rambler, with ten functions, including tiny scissors and a toothpick. My Uncle Joe had given it to me when I was in university and it had served me well over the years. I fanned out the knife\u2019s small blade and stabbed the football with it. It sank into the pigskin with surprising ease. I withdrew it and air hissed out of the puncture.<\/p>\n
No reaction? I shouted. Nothing? The guys merely watched as the football deflated, neither changing expression. I wondered if they were just aliens who hadn\u2019t gotten the groove of being human yet. You made me do this! I cried, holding up the flattened football. It\u2019s your fault! I tossed the football over the fence and it thudded at their feet. They looked at it and exchanged a glance. Then they wordlessly mounted the back porch stairs, opened the screen door, and disappeared into the house.<\/p>\n
I figured they were ratting me out to Sheldon; or, envisaging a darker scenario, had gone in to seize some variety of weapons. I wasn\u2019t worried, though. I could deal with Sheldon; we were on good terms. As for weapons, che sera sera. I\u2019d lived a pretty long life. Not a good one, but a reasonably long one. Nothing scared me anymore. It happens as you age. You stop giving a fuck. Indeed, after ten minutes, neither Sheldon\u2014who was likely working at his bodyshop, given it was Tuesday\u2014nor the possibly armed young men, emerged from the house. The deflated football lay there, abandoned, forlorn. I felt bad for it, a strange remorse. It had done nothing to deserve its fate.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Life is a hollow horse, but riding it hurts. I\u2019ve considered other ways of living, but I\u2019ve grown accustomed to the junk mail. It reminds me that although I\u2019ve been nudged to the margins, I\u2019m still part of the world.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":20055,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[116,1507,3428,3429],"class_list":["post-19487","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-aging","tag-football","tag-french-press-coffee","tag-the-art-of-rudeness","writer-salvatore-difalco"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19487","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19487"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19487\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20056,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19487\/revisions\/20056"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/20055"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19487"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19487"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19487"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}