Walking through the park, my feet ached and I stopped next to a fountain and sat upon a splintery bench to rest them. The fountain beheld a tall, muscular, and veiny granite man, well-dressed in a marble toga. He stood majestic with his chin up and as he looked skyward, he pissed mightily on the children that frolicked below him. The children laughed and splashed about the pool of duck-tainted, but chlorine-sanitized urine at his feet, and played tag in his crystal stream. I looked around and wondered how no one but me could see the disgust of what I saw. Even so, I scooted myself down the bench, lest I share their watery joy.
I held in my hand an ice cream; dark chocolate and cold despite the afternoon heat. I’d purchased it minutes before from a cute girl pedaling a colorful cart down the leaf-shadowed paths of the park. As I licked my icy treat, and older gentlemen, opposite my perch, watched and smiled. I cleaned my treat as a cat preens would its paws, with my tongue caressing and lapping the folds of icy silk. I looked at him, winked, and mouthed a sexy “Meeeee-ow.”
He shuddered, looked away.
I lipped my chocolaty nipple, smiled.
Next to me, a pretty blonde mother with large, perky breasts opened her shirt and released a behemoth for the fussing baby in her lap to nurse. This action delighted the two pimple-faced boys across us. They leaned against an old oak, sweating under heavy leather jackets, and ogled her beneath greasy brows and greasier bangs. They spit one-liners of “Holy shit”, “Mother of god”, and “Damn, I wish I was that baby”.
I glanced back-and-forth between the two, my eyes watering from the tension and anxiousness of it all. While I felt nothing but shame for the boys, I felt only the utmost embarrassment for the mother, yet reserved a silliness feeling only for me. My trifecta of emotions wanted her to cover up, move, or give those boys a tongue-lashing, but my sensibility knew it was not up to me to relieve my discomfort of her, if she did not feel discomfort herself.
I thought more on the situation and soon realized it was not silliness I felt sitting there next to her, it was selfishness. I knew then that the silliness came from something deep inside my memories that scolded me that thus far my life had been inadequate. The selfishness though, it arose not from memories, but from some inhibited animal instinct that I’d kept tethered deep inside dark, mossy cockles of my soul. Left years in darkness, it lunged at the light, feeding on it, struggling to be free, but the rope held taught. The instinct snapped at me and nipped the fringe of my consciousness. In weakness I told myself it was safe, and I let it sniff my hand.
“See, I’m nice,” I said.
“You’re lacking,” it said, and I laughed. “You’re lacking, and it’s entirely the baby’s fault.”
I licked my ice cream, preening its soft folds with my tongue, and I knew the animal was right. It was the infant’s fault and I wholeheartedly blamed him. I mean, why should that little bastard get a whole gallon of milky goodness, while I settled for an ounce of frozen substitute melting in my hand?
“Dibs on the left,” I said. What was this? My mouth had betrayed me, and I spittled a chocolate mist.
The boys laughed and pointed. They smacked each other’s back and one grabbed his knees in exasperation of breath.
I smiled at the mother, my lips ringed in chocolate. Surely, I thought, I look the fool.
She eyed me as if I’d just asked to toss her baby to zoo lions.
And I, fearing my safety, scuttled away. I rushed through the park, kicking at the heroic squirrels and pine cones that dared try trip me.
Not far from the fountain, along the asphalt path, I passed a hotdog vendor. He wheeled his large aluminum cart over tree roots and acorn seeds, bumping and jostling his wieners against the cart’s reverberating metal thighs. He lacked his trademark cherry smile he used for greeting the nightly gaggles of hungry midnight debaucherists who salivated to nibble the browned and wrinkled skin of his girthy brawts. Instead he frowned, waving and clapping his hands at the flock of carrion insects that vied to sample his dewy meat for free. He’d have none of their business though, them with their empty pockets and cardboard signs, and he peppered his hands with their black-winged bodies.
“Begone,” he said.
I smiled as I approached. “I hear you man, those gnats drive me nuts too.”
He flipped me the bird, and I shied at his hostility. “I was talking to you perv,” he said. “Get the hell out of here before I call the cops.”
I shrugged and hurried along. If a finger from a wiener dealer was the worst thing to happen to me after my recent outburst, then I considered myself lucky. Understandably, I’d received the least of what I deserved.
[856]
