I don’t know if I ever explained this yet, but Henry drives me to work every day like the good little jitney he is. I start at 4pm, and he doesn’t leave his job until at least 3, so for me to take (OMG) public transportation, he’d have to come home even earlier, forcing his boss to have a stroke. Plus, being poor folk, we only have one car and sometimes Henry actually needs it to go out and do things for me while I’m filing my nails at my comfy job.
The first two weeks of this went well. Henry is a seasoned pro at driving around downtown because that was his delivery route when he worked at the horrible Jewish meat asylum. So every day, we’d take a different route and I’d marvel at all the new sights of a city where I lived MY WHOLE LIFE. Put me in the center of town and force me to find my way home if you ever want to see me completely give up all hope and succumb to rocking back and forth with hugged knees atop a steaming sewer grate.
Then the cop incident happened, and that was sort of the impetus that took Henry from being all, “No, this is fine; I don’t have a problem driving downtown everyday” to “FUCKING DOWNTOWN OMG ANOTHER BUS I WANT TO BOMB THE BUSES NOW WHAT DOES THIS BROAD THINK SHE’S DOING?”
Two days ago, there were two young black guys yukking it up while jaywalking. I waited for Henry to slow down.
Henry did not slow down.
If I close my eyes, I can still the one boy’s lips beginning to hug the words OH SHIT as Henry nearly grazed his left side.
“WHAT THEY WEREN’T USING A CROSSWALK” Henry bellowed at me, and then approximately five seconds later we almost got t-boned by a bus.
Henry was flipping out. His nostrils, I’ve never seen them that flared, and come on – he’s lived with ME (Erin Rachelle!) for TEN YEARS.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS MY CAR INVISIBLE” he screamed out the window.
(Punctuation need not apply when quoting Chafed Hank.)
As he started to round the corner to drop me off, an older woman was attempting to cross the street.
“Watch—” I started to warn.
“I DON’T CARE I’LL KILL THEM ALL” he spat.
I was very happy when my feet touched my curb, because it meant I’m a survivor. Where’s my magnetic ribbon for the car?
[Side note: When I was shuttled to work yesterday, Chooch had chocolate frosting smeared like shit all over his lips, and was dangling a blown-up latex glove and one bare foot out the window. When you’re met with judgmental stares of homeless people and curb-dwelling wiggers, you can damn well be sure you just exited a Hillbilly Mobile.]
As soon as I got in the car last night, he started rambling about strippers. “They think because they’re strippers, they can just STAND IN THE STREET? I ALMOST RAN ONE OVER” He sounded so exasperated and disgusted, of course I was going to laugh at him.
A note to strippers from Henry: Just because you make him erect does not mean he won’t run you over if you walk in front of his car.
The UPS man brought Chooch a package yesterday. It was a Lego set. And not just any Lego set – but a SPONGEBOB lego set!
Spongebob is probably my least favorite cartoon in the world. Legos are probably my least favorite toy in the world.
OH WAIT, this is about CHOOCH. I keep forgetting!
“That’s mean,” I said to Henry, who had stopped home on his lunch break. “To get a kid Legos.”
Mean for the parents. Or, for the Erin, in this case.
But then I noticed on the invoice, it said it was purchased from his wish list. “That little asshole added it to his Toys R Us wish list!” I said to Henry.
“Yeah, because I wanted it,” Chooch butt in with his patented “no duh” tone.
Henry went back to work just in time for Chooch to start begging for someone to help him sort through 98,098 of the tiniest pieces I’ve ever seen – when did Legos shrink? Is there a growing dwarf population that Lego is trying to accommodate? Just what I wanted to do, spend an entire afternoon on the floor, tugging on my hair and blowing out steaming obscenities.
And then I heard Chooch snickering as he sat elsewhere, playing with less complicated toys that came already assembled by the manufacturer.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked angrily.
“Because you’re doing that all by yourself,” he giggled. “And you’re so pissed.”
Not ten minutes after I put the final dust mite-sized piece on the Krabby Patty Hell House, Chooch picked it up and five sections broke off, shattering as it hit the ground like pieces of a glass leper.
I firmly believe that Hell is carpeted with Legos, and everyone is forced to watch Spongebob ad nauseum while seated in chairs cushioned with the up-ended swords of the PlayMobile viking set.
But Chooch is happy with it, and my sister was nice enough to get it for him. And that’s all that matters! I can say that now, because I got all my anger out yesterday after I punched all those orphaned babies and took a gin bath.
Look at me, being a grown-up!
Seriously though, I kind of want to just give him a cardboard box and tell him to use his imagination.
[ETA: After skimming through this, I realize I sound like an ungrateful asshole! I’m not, I swear! This was meant in good humor. I’m glad Chooch got a present – something he wanted, no less – from someone other than me.]