joie de hate:#1: the man who looked like santa + talked like a pig: part two

And I'm in awe. Grafitti looks so good in the snow. The world is one big white box gallery. I fix my aperature, shutter. I click. I keep walking. A gate opens. Children spill out into the alley, laughing, throwing snowballs at each other. They smile + me + happy dog. Just ahead, a seasonly appropriate looking man (white hair, red cheeks, plump) is trying to get his huge van into a tight backyard parking space. His wheels are spinning, he seems to be stuck. I wonder if there's enough room in the alley for me to get in front + push. Wonder if it is wise...it's a huge van. What if it skids + squishes me, what a stupid way to go, when suddenly Mr. Santa jumps out and shouts at me -- where do I live? I'm startled and say "up there", gesturing north. He starts screaming at me. My dog took a f%^%#@**&ing shit in his alley. I didn't even clean it up. I'm a %^%#@ pig + I do this all the time..." + I'm like, hey, whoa, slow down...where? I ask. I didn't see my dog taking a dump in the alley. I have bags. I pull them out of my pocket. Look! Organic bags! I always clean up after my dog. If I missed it (did I mention there's a blizzard + I'm taking pictures) I'll go pick it up. Not good enough. He's cursing and swearing a blue filthy streak, etc. I tell him, hey, there's kids here. Watch your mouth. The stuff coming out of your mouth is dirtier than anything coming out of my dog. In any case, I don't like dog crap anymore than anyone else. I don't go to the porch to get my newspaper without doggeedo bags in my pocket. So I turned, trudged back down the alley looking for Angus' morning offering. Lots and lots of snow. New snow. Falling fast. Finally I'm down back near the beginning of the alley, near when I took my lovely grafitti picture. Now, almost buried by snow...I think, man that Santa's got some sharp eyes. So, I pick it up, tie the bag together, turn + start heading back up the alley again. And gee, what do you know. Guttermouth Santa's waiting for me. Now he's got a shovel. And I'm wondering if he's going to attack me. Angus is thinking the same thing because he's putting his head down. Growling. He feels the threat. I decide I'll put his leash on. If psycho man attacks me + Angus responds, I want him on his leash so demented man can't claim Angus pursued him. In any case, drooling hate man is a chicken and rushes into his backyard, into his home, slamming his aluminum sliding door shut, all the while screaming how he's calling the police. And I'm thinking. Go for it, Santa. You're really getting off on this. Your adrenaline's flying. You are pumped. You've got...+ then the phrase comes to me...."joie de hate." And on the walk home, trudging through the alley, looking over my shoulder occasionally, watching for a charging police cruiser, or in this weather, horseback? Skidoo? I'm realizing that joie de hate is such real thing. And I've experienced it before. People sputtering hateful, hideous things while really, really enjoying the experience. It makes them, pathetically, feel alive.

Comments

[edith]

...damned scary + damned weird. That day there was such a feeling of community, big snow big nature, we're all in this together kinda thing + then there's this big fat piece of ugly....sigh.

[Bev]

What a stupid reaction on his part. (And I say this as someone who hates to find dogshit on our property.)But you're right, he was probably enjoying it in a mad, sick kind of way. This is the kind of emotion that leads groups to lynchings and riots. For an individual, it leads, ultimately, to a heart attack. Or at least, one can only hope....