I live in a kinda shitty neighbourhood, completely surrounded by less-shitty -- and in some cases, frigging ridiculously nice -- neighbourhoods. When I go for a run, I can see everything from mansions full of diplomats to the Governor General's house to some guy smoking something brown through a hollowed-out Bic pen tube in the span of half an hour. That pen-thing is something I have actually seen TWICE during my ten years in Ottawa. Fucking TWICE.
Anywho, today's run took me through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land -- a gorgeous stretch of road lined with huge homes and beautiful trees. I like running through there because it's quiet, and there's very little chance I'll get smoked by a little old lady in a big-ass Buick. Getting smoked by little old ladies in big-ass Buicks is tied for the 19th leading cause of death in my neighbourhood. The other 19th leading cause of death is goose murder.
I keep running through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land despite being frequently treated by many of its residents like I'm a carrier for some sort of flesh-eating virus. In their defense, I do look pretty diseased when I run. Five minutes in, I'm basically comprised of sweat and desperation. I breathe like I have one of those hot dog whistles lodged in my throat. And I'm usually kind of singing/swearing under my breath just to remind myself that I'm still mostly alive.
Still, that's hardly any excuse for that woman that told me I was running too close to her lawn. Or the uppity bitch who yelled at me because I scared her precious little snowflake of a dog. Or the jerkoffs in their Audis who honk their horns at me because I'm selfishly taking up .03% of the road they're trying to use. It's not my fault they don't have sidewalks there. I guess they're afraid sidewalks attract poor people or something. Poor people do seem to like walking places. Probably because they can't afford fucking Audis.
About 15 minutes into a 45-minute run (so at this point, I look and sound like something furry and sweaty that got hit by a car but only a little bit, so it can still kind of run and make squeaky noises) I see a black sedan parked on the side of the road ahead of me. When there's no sidewalk, I run on the same side of the road as the traffic that's approaching me, so I can see the little old ladies in big-ass Buicks coming toward me, should they get lost on their way to the Orthopedic Shoe & Hard Candy Store and end up in Mansions Full of Diplomats Land. I can't always rely on the scent of Goldbond Medicated Powder to alert me to their presence.
Because of the side of the road I'm on, I'm going to have to run right by Black Sedan Man. Based on previous experience, I assume he's not going to like me. He's not going to want me in his fancy neighbourhood, burning holes in his street as my poverty-sweat drips down like the acid of the unwashed masses.
As I get closer, I see the window of the sedan go down. Well fuck. This fucker's going to yell at me. He's going to tell me to get off the road. To go home and wait for my welfare cheque to show up. (Joke's on him -- I'd probably make more if I was on welfare.)
I could have swerved to the other side of the road to avoid the confrontation. Let him yell across the street at me and just ignore him. But fuck that -- I'm in a shitty mood, and I wouldn't mind getting into a screaming match with some rich asshole who thinks he's better than me in his fancy car with his fancy hair and his fancy clothes and probably some fancy fucking cat at home that has hair made of silk and can shit golden rainbow turds. A fight would feel good. A fight would feel GREAT, after two days of seeing nothing and reading nothing and reporting on nothing but some piece of shit (and/or pieces of shit) that blew up a little kid who just wanted to watch his daddy finish a marathon. He'd JUST HUGGED HIS DADDY, for fuck's sake. Now he's dead and his mom is hurt and his little sister is hurt and we're left living in a world that's full of fucking monsters and just generally sucks overall.
I've seen enough to know that this world is fucked and it's just going to get worse. Every year -- every DAY -- it seems like things are getting more and more horrible. Whatever happens next, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.
I've had enough rotten experiences with people along this street to know that whatever this guy has to say, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.
As I get closer to his car with its open window, I make eye contact. I'm ready, fucker. I know exactly what to expect.
He puts his hand out the window to give me a high-five.
I high-fived him back. I said thank you. Then I ran for the next half hour in a state of almost-crying, because I had been so terribly, terribly wrong.
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