Monday, May 09, 2005
Communication Undefined
Went to see Dad at the rehab center tonight. He's slipping again, and it worries me. He asked me to help him get up and get dressed after telling me he can't get out of bed, which I knew. They put this mesh seat under him, hook it to a lifting device, and transfer him to his wheelchair with it. I felt bad, explaining to him he had to stay a while longer. He wants to come home. I want that drive in him to get strong enough to push himself so he CAN come home, but he's always been so strong, he still thinks his body should perform on demand.
On the way home, a restored old Chevy pulled up beside me, blaring their rap. A black kid was driving, a Mexican kid was sitting shotgun. Surprisingly, they turned down the sound when they pulled up. I grinned at them, turned mine down, shook my head, made a spinning motion with a finger, and gave them a thumbs up. I assume it's rare some old codger wants to hear it, so they smiled back and complied. Other than my brain bouncing off my skull, it was interesting! A heavy drum-beat, of course, plenty of bass guitar, and the following lyrics, as best I remember them:
"I'm gonna fuck you fine, bitch,
Stop that fuckin' cryin' bitch
I'm gonna make you mine, bitch."
Now I asked for it, had no complaint against the young men. But I was thinking that if I had a daughter, well, that's SURE the mentality I'd want her dates operating on. Uh huh.
Got home, did the dog/cat effusive greeting thing, did some odd chores I'd left undone earlier,
and here I am.
Before I could begin blogging, though, I got some Indian guy (from India) on the phone asking for my ex-wife. Thick, THICK accent, and not a great command of English. Now, I don't care WHAT country he's from; I care that his employer is butt-humping some American out of a half-ass job that might at least cover the rent. I don't blame the Indian guy, but since the odds of getting his boss on the line are, well, NONE, then he's gonna take the heat.
"Divorced", I said, "Six fuggin' years."
"Do you have a phone number she can be reached?"
"I don't have to talk to her anymore. You need to learn two words: DIVORCED and DORK."
And I hung up the phone, smiling. See, I get like 15 of these calls a week. Whatever list she got on, by now, between patient explanations and shouted ones, she should be OFF that damn list. At least at this number. The hostility goes up from here.
It's sort of an offshoot from Dec. 20, 1979, two days after my brother died. I'm at my parents' house, we're trying to muster the energy and control the breakdowns enough to pack so we can fly back to Oklahoma and bury him.
I get a cheery call from one of the local Cemetaries, offering "Free Plots" if I sign up for their plan.
I was REALLY glad I got it instead of my folks.
"Listen," I told the hapless young female who called. "My brother's obituary is in the paper today. If those fucking GHOULS you worked for had a grain of sensitivity, they'd check that before turning you loose on the public. Now, you write this down, ok?"
"Yessir!"
"If your company EVER calls this number again, I am PERSONALLY going to come to your office, bypass all you workers, find your boss, and shove an entire TELEPHONE up his ass. Now you WILL relay that message, won't you? Because if you don't, he's going to be in a LOT of pain the next time someone calls me from there."
"I'm really terribly...."
"Forget it," I said, "this isn't your doing. But right now, it would be worth 5 years in prison just to hear what he went through getting that telephone back out. You go give him the note, ok?"
"Yessir. And I'm sorry sir." She hung up.
It was 5 years before they called back again. I was there then, too. I explained the story, and that 5 years hadn't calmed me a bit. That time was the last time they called.
I'm much calmer and more mature now, of course. I'd probably just cram the handset up his ass.
