The morning is a sacred time where commitments to wake up quickly dissolve into hasty renegotiation with one’s cell phone alarm. Just 10 more minutes of remarkably uncomfortable sleep. Noises of once imperceptible stirring ring out like gunshots in the silence (generous word for the city) of dawn. We all hit that ceiling where restful sleep is not to be had, and all that’s left is the hunting down of that pretty relieving fart you know is coming and reconciling with the fact that, yes, you’ll have to get up and pee. And at that point, it’s up and at ‘em.
This morning was no different than any other. I woke up to the sound of an apartment under siege. This particular bombardment was that of two professional working women, one of which is my girlfriend. Shower valves releasing their why-is-it-so-cold-I-thought-water-heaters-were-faster-these-days contents, hair dryers interminably screaming with electricity, cotton-polyblend clothes whisked through the air and onto eager unprotected limbs. This, minus the poesy, was a morning that was so deliciously normal it would be forgotten as soon as the door was locked shut behind us.
It was a cold day, I suppose. Rounding the corner is a ritual reserved for the travel-anxious such as myself, one wherein crushing self doubt of one’s ability to “make that train, jesus fuck” ensues. Indeed, it is not only the reality of the train, but the possibility of the train at any moment that inspires such paranoia. Is that the telltale MBTA engine idle I hear, or perhaps just a large truck badly in need of servicing? Your pace becomes slightly more frenzied, in a schizoid half-run half-walk. Either way, you make it and delight in some perverse joy of having “won” (then pass out next to a bunch of strangers) or you miss it and you’re stuck staring at the nearest point of ingress for the train tracks. Today, I made it.
I read through a chapter or two of “American Gods”, which is really doing it for me right now. Gaiman is, as I’ve said, like King–except less forced. Where King probably rifles through 20-some-odd pages of rotten.com, queries google with the unfinished search of “why am I afraid of”, and gently runs his hands over a John Wayne Gacy Jr. original just before he slumbers for inspiration these days, Gaiman seems to just sort of have this shit in his head. In short, it feels more organic and personal, and I can’t wait to move on to Anansi Boys. We hit Copley and enjoy an abridged “have a good day” kiss, yet another daily ritual or affirmation, and I’m off to work! It’s one, two, three, and they’re off! Oh, hey there unflinchingly enthusiastic Metro guy, what’s your secret? Do you actually love standing out here in the goddamned cold as shit weather, or have you underwent some sort of partial lobectomy to remove sadness from your catalogue of available emotions? Either way, your aloof pacifism sort of transfers through the paper-I-do-not-want and into me for a brief 20 seconds, or as long as it takes for me to get to the next leg of this empty recollection.
Stepping into CVS, as we are all wont to do, I proceeded to peruse aisles of shit I do not need. The varieties are endless and the mark-downs entirely relative to their ham-fisted retail gouging. I bite anyhow, purchasing some pop tarts (for their nostalgic quality as well as dense caloric value) and granola bars that I know aren’t nearly as good as they purport to be. The self checkout, which was doubtlessly created to impartially mediate the purchasing process of awkward intimate items (read: Vaginal Diaphragm and Sour Cream and Onion Pringles purchases), allowed me a hasty and nearly guilt-free getaway.
As I repaired the primrose path of the pavement leading to my work, the “return headphones to ears” initiative was enacted by the much beloved Incumbent Governor of the Brain– Mr. Don’t-want-to-talk-to-bums Fuckoff-ovitch. That being said, the previous “look where youre going” social program was left to it’s own devices.
Alright, I’m getting sick of trying too hard with word smithing. I stepped in dog shit.
Fresh, pasty, work dog class dog shit. The kind that bespeaks of necessity, crude protein, and callous owner disregard.
Having entirely buried the heel of my shoe in the poo, I proceeded to stagger away in a disheveled huff of expletives, humility, and anger. I thought to myself “What sort of asshole lets his dog shit dead in the middle of a high pedestrian traffic sidewalk in Boston?” The deliberateness with which it was done can only be properly translated into the stuff of Mario Kart, wherein one tactfully lays such snares to gain advantage.
As I hobbled away in a clubfooted dirge of desperation, I realized that I must look eerily similar to one of the crazy homeless I was so desperate to dodge– dragging one foot, cursing unknown pantheons of gods, clutching a bag full of cheap CVS goods. And at that moment, I felt myself beginning to transfer my hostilities. “What the fuck are you looking at buddy?” I thought. If you just stepped in piping hot dog shit, you’d be staggering around trying to dislodge it’s earthen clay-like remnants too. If this was one of those moments wherein societal norms underwent some sort of ironic inversion, I definitely wasn’t aware. I just knew that everyone could totally shove it and that, come hell or high water, I was getting the shit off of my shoe.
Standing in a tepid pool of rainwater, I began the mechanical process of soaking and stomping off ridiculously smelly dog poo from my shoe onto the brickwork. It was just as graceless as it was classless, and I didn’t care. Fuck this, I said, as something like The Eagles “New York Minute” went unregarded through my headphones and into the faraway place where such music goes to mourn it’s lack of active consideration. And as I realized I wasn’t giving a proper shit for my music, I saw what I’ve since retroactively assumed was the culpable dog in question. In movie quality slow motion, I axe-handle kicked my heel to the sidewalk and looked up to see the worlds most resplendent Husky prancing it’s fluffy ass down the street. It was, naturally, grinning and panting as though on some sort of personal animalesque Iditarod. In short, showdog material, folks.
I immediately began to feel myself forgiving this dog of it’s natural biological function. My forgiveness was so deep and religious that I couldn’t even begin to care about the real violator– the owner– who strode past just as mindlessly as Im sure he had on his first lap of the street. Here the dog was, like some sort of virginal christ figure to me, and there was man, vapid and merely accessory to the entire scenario. I’m sure there’s some lost archival dissertation out there that, yet again, describes such an earth shatteringly meaningful inversion of man and beast that could articulate this entire “point” with more grace.
But, I don’t much care. I’m not entirely sure there is a point at all to be had.
And that is the story of how I learned forgiveness towards the dog shit on my shoe and went to work looking like a crazy man with lower limb paralysis.
