The Retarded Lance Armstrong
He whirred by me- me in my car and him in his bike. Cars screeched their tires, but he, the delicate marvel, kept riding across the street without notice of the world around. I thought him a daredevil (before finding out his retardedness). I pulled in my parking spot (the one I always park in front of the liqour store) to grab a few things fromt he grocery. And this is where he, also pulling in, watches the front of my car come to a stop.
"Stupid mutha-fukka," he says.
I smile and chuckle to myself, the way a confident man does, or a stupid man does.
As he is chaining his bike up I notice something not quite right about him. He watches me, as a cat might (or a naughty puppy) from the corner of his eyes, pretending to work something on this bike, but really doing nothing. So he is putting on an act while he watches me walk toward him, walk toward the doors that split open automatically. But he is not convincing, even half-so, as most Americans are at watching the world while pretending to be doing something else. This mindset is an agreement with all of North America to be the 'rugged individualist' but really only feigning what the phrase means. So as I get closer (still not realizing this man is retarded) I ask him if he has something to say. His response:
"Dumm Mutha-Fukka; I'll bust your head open."
I continue on to buy my little things, thinking that if he did strike me, if he did make this ''mutha-fukka's" head part like a coconut, then I'd calmly get a grocery worker, tell him there is a beligerant retarded man outside, and that I did not hit him back. Why? Because he is much like a child, the way he acts, but how horrid it must be to be stuck as a child for a lifetime. How nerve-racking to have complex emotions and not have an outlet, a proper outlet, to expose them. So I shop, and leave, and watch him at the candy machines near the entrance, pulling out a giant gumball and smiling. I think what a wonderful thing it must be too. To be a child for a lifetime. But like anything, the good and the bad points kill each other, and the question of the day, year, and second is this: what's left when the dust settles?