Mardis Gras Madness

Last night was loads o' fun! It's really great to work every damned holiday in the universe, and your friends all have fun, and you get to sell alcoholic beverages to people who have had more than enough alcoholic beverages to feel better than you feel tired of working. The only parades I have seen this Mardis Gras are the parades of loons, drunks, fools and thieves that pass by, and they don't throw me something, mister.

Bridget sent me a money order for $100. She still owes me $330, but she is claiming that she only owes me $150. perhaps, in her alcohol and drug be-sotted brain, she actually believes her own bullshit, but I am cognizant enough of her ability to remember what other people owe her under such circumstances to doubt such an assumption. I think she just doesn't want to pay me what she owes me, and is trying to get off as cheaply as she can. Too bad: I used to think of her as one of my best friends. Selfish people are the bane of society. I think I shall attempt, in future, to recognise them, early on, and avoid them. I have been, after all, through the annealing fire.

A skanky black guy shoved a bottle of Bacardi 151 in his stinking pants and walked out last night. He got into a trashy car with the right rear window broken out and taped up with visqueen, and several of us watched them drive away. We are not allowed to stop thieves. They had taken the license plate off of the vehicle, so they were down to thieve. I called Perkins Rd. and told them to watch out for him. I hate a thief.

Almost got killed last night, going home. There is this weird guy who haunts the store all the time, and comes in just about every day for a can of beer. I think he is homeless, because I pass the bus stop over by Perkins and Acadian and see him crashed out there sometimes. He rides a bike, albeit slowly, wears an helmet with reflective tape on it, and has a myriad of things hanging around his neck: a radio, a lighter, a compass, and several other things (I don't have any idea what the hell they are). He's strange, but okay. One of the people I don't really mind seeing in my store; actually look forwards to seeing him.

Well, O Best Beloved, I was pumping my way home on Perkins Rd. about 10:20 PM or so, and had just passed him, and waved and yelled hello, as he was going the same way I was. I had got about 30m ahead of him, approaching the inlet to the car park in front of a local tavern called “The Caterie”, where, apparently, local denizens were gathering to celebrate the holiday. Two vehicles turned left as I approached. As I reached the driveway, a third vehicle, a monstrous silver Suburban, cut left, directly in my path.

I was doing about 20 mph, so it was too late to brake. I cut right about 45 degrees, as far as I could, without losing control, and dropped two gears and hit it as hard as I could. He braked, but not in time. He missed my leg by a scant foot. Thank God, the kerb I hit was one of the old slanty ones, and not at a right angle (that would have pranged my wheel to hell and thrown me over the horns). I wound up skidding to a stop in the grass about 2 m from the driveway.

Of course, he just drove on, as if nothing happened. I had had a split-second when I imagined my left leg cracking like a twig, under the onslaught of his bumper. Having had my right leg broken in an accident before, I cannot recommend the feeling to you. The sound is like a dulled pop, like a firecracker under water, but you feel it all the way up into your groin. When I skidded to a stop, that memory was quite vivid in my brain. I unleashed a chain of invective that would make my sainted Irish mother proud. I considered going back, dragging out of his fucking gas-guzzler and beating him into a bloody pulp, but then cold reason stepped in. I stopped at the signal at Acadian Thruway, the next block.

Well, the weird guy stopped right behind me. I yelled, “Didi you see that stupid motherfucker? I almost got killed!” He said, “Yeah. I didn't think you were going to make it.” If he had broken my leg, I would be in hospital now. I would be off work for at least a month. I would lose my job. I would lose my apartment. My cats would be homeless, and I would be sleeping behind buildings again, as I was when Bridget first fucked me out of the money she owes me.

Which brings me back to the theme of this post: I will, never again, ever, in my life, put others' fortunes ahead of my own. Not to say that I am not a good and generous man: I am. Not just tooting my own whistle, either: ask anyone (besides Bridget and her trained Chihuahua). One small accident, one slip, one tiny interference with my daily routine of work, and I can be right back where I was before, sleeping behind buildings. I know that. I cannot allow that to happen.

Which is why I will get what I am owed, or the Devil will get his due.


HBCG Stats: 2 KOCs, 1 QT, 0 Mhs, 2 CHK and 0 C-10s. What a bust!