Sent: 5/3/2002 11:04 AM
Mister Man was stockily standing on the opposite side of the street where I live, with his little dog, cussing and cursing like nobody's business at an Asian delivery boy, who was, in turn, giving Mister Man his unique form of fight talk. Of course, all this brutal language was forced to FLY back and forth on my street, as they stood yards and yards from one another. These horribly angry words seemed to echo around in the canyon of my block, stunning me.
Mister Man was winning. A native English speaker, he used the "speech" cannon, which sent the heavily accented boy hurling. White, Mister Man shot out a "american" and a "foreigner". More wounds. The growing flustered but irate Asian delivery boy staggered, and could only come back with calling Mister Man crazy. Mister Man's puffy, red face smirked a little. As the Asian delivery boy was locking his bike to the fence just next to the building, Mister Man missiled a "homosexual" which inadvertently hit me, leaving the Asian boy further attacked, then pissed, and again calling him crazy. I had had just about enough of all of this crap.
I wanted to yell out, "Shut the hell up, both of you! Don't litter my street!" But I kept quiet, and Mister Man raged on. Blow after blow lay waste to the delivery boy. Finally hurting from the words, the boy became so distraught that he retreated inside. I felt just awful. For him. For me. For my knowing that this happens all the damn time. I decided to walk across the street to the building where the delivery boy went inside and wait for him so to tell him, as I was also trying to tell myself, not to get worked up blistering red hot because of assholes like that, that it's not worth it. As I crossed the street, I noticed that Mister Man had turned around and was walking back up the street. I thought perhaps he was going home; however, ducking under the doorway of the building where the delivery was occurring, Mister Man, dog in hand, walked over to the delivery boy's bicycle and began to pound and pound and pound his foot directly against the back tire, bending it, destroying it, ruining it.
"No! Stop! Don't!" I yelled as I ran up to Mister Man. "What are you doing? What's up with you?" Mister Man quickly stopped mutilating the bike, looked around at his becoming obvious to another person, and started walking away down the street. "If you know what's good for you," he called back over his shoulder, "You'll mind your own fucking business." I blinked. I looked down at the remains of the bicycle and thought of the poor delivery boy who was soon to come out and find it. I looked up at the back of Mister Man. I said, "You know, this is really, really sad." Mister Man arrogantly looked back annoyed but continued walking away from me, down the street and around the corner. I was in sorrow.
"Words like 'violence'
break the silence,
come crashing in,
into my little world.
Painful to me,
pierce right through me,
don't you understand,
oh my little girl."
When the Asian delivery boy walked outside and saw his bike, he looked as if he would cry. In stunned silence, he stared at it, looked down the street and then stared at his crumpled bike again. It was just so wrong. He unlocked it from the gate and picked it up over his shoulder. He would have to carry it now. I offered what words I could of encouragement, but he didn't seem to hear me as he continued his heavy march up the block, towards his job.
A woman called to me from across the street, "That was just wrong." I called back, "Yes, it was."
We know what's wrong with the world. Let's say it.
