This phenominal children's picture book always made me wonder; Where is that land where all the wild things live? I've since discovered pockets of society - the underworld - that the wild things inhabit. And apparently - they're also at the Maricopa County Courthouse. (And no, I'm not going to dole out juicy details about my case, so stay in your seat people.)
The wild thing I speak of, came to me this week in the form of a blind homeless man. I know it's not fair to satirize the handicapped, but since I'm still technically a member of the club, I'm giving myself a hall pass. And in this instance, there was no avoiding this scenario. It came to me.
It started when I was seated in the courthouse cafeteria trying to avoid my fellow jurors and any related family members. I heard the hollering right behind me. It wasn't angry or scary yelling, but rather a controlled, suave, trash-talking session. To my surprise and delight, the debating men I thought I heard - turned out to be a singular gentleman: blind, black and offering up a foul odor that was drifting nearer and nearer to my lunch. He sat alone at a table in the middle of the very corporate legal lunch hussle, unphased. With his best gangster lean, he proceeded - as smooth as jazz, and in a voice I can only associate with a true pimp - to shout and gesture insults. Each exclamation seemed less and less related to the one prior, but not less in fervor. Oh no. He gestured like he was smoking a blunt, and between words, he produced a clicking noise...you know, the type that is reserved only for a sleezy wink, or even for throwing the guns.
With my back almost directly to this man, I leaned back and enjoyed the show:
"Sheeeeeiiiiiiiiiit. Is hot outside." - Fair enough.
"Buy me some'm good baaaaaby." - Hopeful, but unlikely.
"You want seix? No ma'am! I don't give a shit!" - Delusional, as nobody in their right mind would be asking for sex from this man.
"Get owwn outta her, girrrr." - Fair enough.
"I toad her, I'm 52; I'm not gon listen to yo cryin." - Again, appropriate.
"What happen to you? You prolly had about 15 yawds in the hood of my trunk!" - Wait, what? 15 yards of what? And why is it in the HOOD of your trunk?
"Let me tell you. How does he know Gary? Fuuuuuuuuuuck you. You. Can't. Get. NOTHIN'" - My mind drifts to the CFO of my past job, in which case, not very many people do indeed, know Gary.
"My Momma. My Baby. My lady. My Guuuuuuuurl." - Hmmmm.
"I tried to tell em, ya hear. But you know...motha fuckas...they just don't listen." - Touché, sir.
I think we can learn a lot from our fellow wild things. At the very least, we're guaranteed a chuckle, which is rightly what I received. Thank you, insane blind man. You bettered my lunch hour.
Dedicated to my dearest Gloria Slakoff who, above all else, loves lunch... precisely when this "sighting" occurred.
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