DUMPSTERS HAVE FEELINGS TOO
Oh the South. It's funny to me that growing up there were things that romanticized the South so much. Look at Gone with the Wind. I mean, even through the Civil War, Atlanta burning, disease, loss and slavery, Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler still made it all seem so romantic.
There were books I read that made me long to live somewhere with history, heat and lightening bugs. In recent years I fell in love with the three Ya-Ya Sisterhood books. Now those all took place in Louisiana, but its still got the makings of any Southern state...the sultry, humid nights; evenings sitting on a porch swing; dips in a swimming hole....it all seemed dreamy and seemed to draw me in. I thought of those things amongst the many reasons to move out to North Carolina.
Now, there are some things that as many of you know, I love here. I love being close to my mom, sister and niece. I love the weather and the inexpensiveness to live here. I love that for the most part, people are quite friendly here, and it's not so damned "LOOK AT ME!" when you go out like back home. I love being near my friend and her son in Charlotte, and I love that though I'm not quite there yet, I know there are many adventures waiting for me here.
Saying all of that, I still think about that romantic notion of the South. Instead, now that the leaves have fallen, I sit here with a view of a shitload of garbage in the ravine next to me. I hear people cussing each other out, throwing things, and today I enjoyed the lovely chants of children yelling "Crackhead! Crackhead!" to another little boy. Daily I endure drivers who apparently think their turn signal lever must surely be their rocket boost lever, and since they're wary of a speeding too fast, they fail to ever take the risk of using it. There are rarely any sidewalks in this city, and just as few crosswalks. I had to run across four lanes of traffic in slippers when my car failed to start this morning. I experienced being called a Yankee on Friday night, even though my sister said I'm not a Yankee, but a Westerner. It wasn't derogatory, but instead turned into a mission of one drunk man to make me yell, "Yeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaah!" every time he yelled, "Pacific Northwest represent!"
Then there is the drunk, white guy in the ravine. He's become my new favorite thing about High Point. I encountered this fine man a few weeks ago while I sat out on my balcony with a glass of wine and a book. I have seen plenty of people cut through the ravine, but none have been noticeably trashed like this man. The dragging of his feet on the pavement is what made me lift my head initially. There I saw drunk, sweater man, beer in hand, stumbling to the edge of my parking lot. He swayed back and forth as he made his way down the slight hill to the ravine. He tried to enter at one point, but I think a large pile of garbage was blocking his way. He shuffled to the left, took one step and ate shit. Sprawled on the ground on his belly, he impressed me that he still managed to be holding his bottle of beer.
He pushed himself up, took a drink of his beer, then stumbled around in the ravine. It's a pretty narrow ravine, but I swore he was going to get lost. He would stumble to the left for a while, look around in the dark, then stumble to his right. He finally made it across and entered the parking lot of some building on the other side. Thinking that was the end of it, I went back to my book. But no. This was not the end of it. I notice a lighter being flicked on in the parking lot, then "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeep!" a firecracker was set off and shot into the sky.
"What the fuck?" I whispered.
I see his shadow make it's way back to the ravine and hear him crunching around a bit before he resurfaces and leaves the ravine. What the hell? I mean, was he sitting in his apartment with his buddies playing Truth or Dare and he was dared to set off a firecracker? In his hours of drinking, did he start to feel nostalgic for the Fourth of July? Or was it a flare of sorts, to notify his planet to come pick him up? I was laughing at all this and called my mom to relay the latest white trash story.
A few nights ago he returned. This time, he looked pissed and had no beer bottle in hand. His fists were clenched and he barely moved his arms as he stomped towards the woods. He stormed straight through the parking lot, and into the ravine he so loves. I waited for another firework to go off, but instead I saw him walk over to the dumpster and start punching it. The echoes of his beating were loud, as was his cursing. Who beats a dumpster? A METAL dumpster? He beat it for a while and I continued to watch, shocked yet intrigued. Then it got much worse.
I saw the dumpster assaulter do something that looked like he was reaching in his pockets, but it wasn't his pockets. His legs spread apart and he growled loudly and then he peed on the dumpster.
I covered my mouth as I squealed.
Why is this man first beating on a dumpster, then peeing on it? And why did he growl when he peed? Was he trying to pass a kidney stone and didn't want to do so at home? Was his mother run over by a runaway dumpster and he wanted to avenge her death? Did he accidentally burn his couch with one of his fireworks, have to throw it away and then got angry about it and blamed the dumpster?
I have no clue what is wrong with this man, but I have to say, it's cheaper than a movie.
There were books I read that made me long to live somewhere with history, heat and lightening bugs. In recent years I fell in love with the three Ya-Ya Sisterhood books. Now those all took place in Louisiana, but its still got the makings of any Southern state...the sultry, humid nights; evenings sitting on a porch swing; dips in a swimming hole....it all seemed dreamy and seemed to draw me in. I thought of those things amongst the many reasons to move out to North Carolina.
Now, there are some things that as many of you know, I love here. I love being close to my mom, sister and niece. I love the weather and the inexpensiveness to live here. I love that for the most part, people are quite friendly here, and it's not so damned "LOOK AT ME!" when you go out like back home. I love being near my friend and her son in Charlotte, and I love that though I'm not quite there yet, I know there are many adventures waiting for me here.
Saying all of that, I still think about that romantic notion of the South. Instead, now that the leaves have fallen, I sit here with a view of a shitload of garbage in the ravine next to me. I hear people cussing each other out, throwing things, and today I enjoyed the lovely chants of children yelling "Crackhead! Crackhead!" to another little boy. Daily I endure drivers who apparently think their turn signal lever must surely be their rocket boost lever, and since they're wary of a speeding too fast, they fail to ever take the risk of using it. There are rarely any sidewalks in this city, and just as few crosswalks. I had to run across four lanes of traffic in slippers when my car failed to start this morning. I experienced being called a Yankee on Friday night, even though my sister said I'm not a Yankee, but a Westerner. It wasn't derogatory, but instead turned into a mission of one drunk man to make me yell, "Yeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaah!" every time he yelled, "Pacific Northwest represent!"
Then there is the drunk, white guy in the ravine. He's become my new favorite thing about High Point. I encountered this fine man a few weeks ago while I sat out on my balcony with a glass of wine and a book. I have seen plenty of people cut through the ravine, but none have been noticeably trashed like this man. The dragging of his feet on the pavement is what made me lift my head initially. There I saw drunk, sweater man, beer in hand, stumbling to the edge of my parking lot. He swayed back and forth as he made his way down the slight hill to the ravine. He tried to enter at one point, but I think a large pile of garbage was blocking his way. He shuffled to the left, took one step and ate shit. Sprawled on the ground on his belly, he impressed me that he still managed to be holding his bottle of beer.
He pushed himself up, took a drink of his beer, then stumbled around in the ravine. It's a pretty narrow ravine, but I swore he was going to get lost. He would stumble to the left for a while, look around in the dark, then stumble to his right. He finally made it across and entered the parking lot of some building on the other side. Thinking that was the end of it, I went back to my book. But no. This was not the end of it. I notice a lighter being flicked on in the parking lot, then "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeep!" a firecracker was set off and shot into the sky.
"What the fuck?" I whispered.
I see his shadow make it's way back to the ravine and hear him crunching around a bit before he resurfaces and leaves the ravine. What the hell? I mean, was he sitting in his apartment with his buddies playing Truth or Dare and he was dared to set off a firecracker? In his hours of drinking, did he start to feel nostalgic for the Fourth of July? Or was it a flare of sorts, to notify his planet to come pick him up? I was laughing at all this and called my mom to relay the latest white trash story.
A few nights ago he returned. This time, he looked pissed and had no beer bottle in hand. His fists were clenched and he barely moved his arms as he stomped towards the woods. He stormed straight through the parking lot, and into the ravine he so loves. I waited for another firework to go off, but instead I saw him walk over to the dumpster and start punching it. The echoes of his beating were loud, as was his cursing. Who beats a dumpster? A METAL dumpster? He beat it for a while and I continued to watch, shocked yet intrigued. Then it got much worse.
I saw the dumpster assaulter do something that looked like he was reaching in his pockets, but it wasn't his pockets. His legs spread apart and he growled loudly and then he peed on the dumpster.
I covered my mouth as I squealed.
Why is this man first beating on a dumpster, then peeing on it? And why did he growl when he peed? Was he trying to pass a kidney stone and didn't want to do so at home? Was his mother run over by a runaway dumpster and he wanted to avenge her death? Did he accidentally burn his couch with one of his fireworks, have to throw it away and then got angry about it and blamed the dumpster?
I have no clue what is wrong with this man, but I have to say, it's cheaper than a movie.
