It is a clear, crisp, November day with a southern exposure and autumn leaves are strewn on the sidewalk and lawn in front of me and the dog as we sit on steps up to where I have lived for thirteen years.
The dog begins to bark as a passerby walks down the block of three story apartment houses and I say to the dog to "attack" releasing the dog's collar as the male passerby walks past where I am seated on steps up to the front door.
The dog leaps across the front walk to the sidewalk and begins to bark incessantly at the passerby's legs.
"What the hell!?" the man yells.
"Oh. I'm sorry. Toodles! Toodles!" I say standing up and calling my dog who stops barking at the passerby when I call him.
"You know some people are afraid of dogs. You've been drinking too much beer. I could call the police on you," the man yells at me noticing a beer in my hand as I wave my hands upended in the air saying "sorry, it was just a joke."
---
It is a clear, crisp, April day with a southern exposure over the bay from my car in a tight space on a Sunday.
I am about to go for a swim in the ocean. I park between two, tightly spaced, white, parking lines next to a metallic blue mini van on the driver's side so that when I open the driver door to change into a swimsuit, my driver door taps the minivan side panel.
I notice the driver of the minivan sitting in the driver's seat and he notices my tapping of his van with my driver side door while changing. I indicate through his passenger window to roll it down so that I could speak to him.
"Sorry about that. It's just that these spaces are painted too tight."
"Well, don't do it. You're not chipping the paint are you!?"
"No. The paint isn't chipped. I'll try not to, but it's tight."
The driver of the minivan rolls up his passenger window from a push button on the driver side door.
As I finish changing in a tight spot with my driver side door tapping the minivan with the driver in the seat, the driver of the minivan rounds the back of his van to inspect any damage.
"See. There is no damage. All I was doing was this," I say as I show him how hard my driver side door was tapping his minivan while I was changing.
"Well, I could call the police," the driver of the minivan says.
"Call the police. Do you know what their number is? Call 911."
"Oh. I'm not going to call 911."
"Do you know what their number is? It's 867-5309. Call them."
"Oh. I know what the number is ..."
"Good. Call them!"
The man walks round his van again to enter the driver seat and I go swimming.
---
It is a clear, crisp, April 15th, 2013 morning dressed as a clown buying what I am told is a soda pop put into a brown, paper bag by a store clerk up the street from where I go to drink the "soda pop" on a stoop off a parking lot behind a coffee shop.
A barista steps out of a back door to the coffee shop from the parking lot, sees me sitting on a stoop next door with a brown paper bag and "soda pop" while the barista throws trash into a dumpster and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop only to exit the coffee shop to throw more trash away into a dumpster and have a word with me drinking a "soda pop" from a brown paper bag on a stoop next door to the coffee shop in a parking lot on the day of the Boston Marathon Bombing.
"You can't be doing that there."
"What can't I be doing?"
"You know. Drinking that!"
"Drinking what!? It's a soda pop."
"Yeah right, it is. Either you move or I'm calling the police."
"Call the police," I say looking dumbfounded at a barista of the coffee shop that I have frequented for fifteen years.
"OK. I will. You should be easy to find," the barista says and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop.
I swig my "soda pop," leave the bottle by the stoop where I had been sitting and round the block building to the front of the coffee shop where I enter, buy a coffee dressed as a clown and exit without being seen by the barista who is calling the police on me in the back of the coffee shop.
The dog begins to bark as a passerby walks down the block of three story apartment houses and I say to the dog to "attack" releasing the dog's collar as the male passerby walks past where I am seated on steps up to the front door.
The dog leaps across the front walk to the sidewalk and begins to bark incessantly at the passerby's legs.
"What the hell!?" the man yells.
"Oh. I'm sorry. Toodles! Toodles!" I say standing up and calling my dog who stops barking at the passerby when I call him.
"You know some people are afraid of dogs. You've been drinking too much beer. I could call the police on you," the man yells at me noticing a beer in my hand as I wave my hands upended in the air saying "sorry, it was just a joke."
---
It is a clear, crisp, April day with a southern exposure over the bay from my car in a tight space on a Sunday.
I am about to go for a swim in the ocean. I park between two, tightly spaced, white, parking lines next to a metallic blue mini van on the driver's side so that when I open the driver door to change into a swimsuit, my driver door taps the minivan side panel.
I notice the driver of the minivan sitting in the driver's seat and he notices my tapping of his van with my driver side door while changing. I indicate through his passenger window to roll it down so that I could speak to him.
"Sorry about that. It's just that these spaces are painted too tight."
"Well, don't do it. You're not chipping the paint are you!?"
"No. The paint isn't chipped. I'll try not to, but it's tight."
The driver of the minivan rolls up his passenger window from a push button on the driver side door.
As I finish changing in a tight spot with my driver side door tapping the minivan with the driver in the seat, the driver of the minivan rounds the back of his van to inspect any damage.
"See. There is no damage. All I was doing was this," I say as I show him how hard my driver side door was tapping his minivan while I was changing.
"Well, I could call the police," the driver of the minivan says.
"Call the police. Do you know what their number is? Call 911."
"Oh. I'm not going to call 911."
"Do you know what their number is? It's 867-5309. Call them."
"Oh. I know what the number is ..."
"Good. Call them!"
The man walks round his van again to enter the driver seat and I go swimming.
---
It is a clear, crisp, April 15th, 2013 morning dressed as a clown buying what I am told is a soda pop put into a brown, paper bag by a store clerk up the street from where I go to drink the "soda pop" on a stoop off a parking lot behind a coffee shop.
A barista steps out of a back door to the coffee shop from the parking lot, sees me sitting on a stoop next door with a brown paper bag and "soda pop" while the barista throws trash into a dumpster and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop only to exit the coffee shop to throw more trash away into a dumpster and have a word with me drinking a "soda pop" from a brown paper bag on a stoop next door to the coffee shop in a parking lot on the day of the Boston Marathon Bombing.
"You can't be doing that there."
"What can't I be doing?"
"You know. Drinking that!"
"Drinking what!? It's a soda pop."
"Yeah right, it is. Either you move or I'm calling the police."
"Call the police," I say looking dumbfounded at a barista of the coffee shop that I have frequented for fifteen years.
"OK. I will. You should be easy to find," the barista says and enters the backdoor to the coffee shop.
I swig my "soda pop," leave the bottle by the stoop where I had been sitting and round the block building to the front of the coffee shop where I enter, buy a coffee dressed as a clown and exit without being seen by the barista who is calling the police on me in the back of the coffee shop.
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