- Arc Story
- September 17th, 2009
Tuesday evening was very nice; nice enough that a three block walk to the nearest ATM turned into a mile-or-so loop including the community garden and the Trinity College campus. My Ladyfriend had come by, and a late afternoon stroll was a very nice diversion.
Upon returning to my house, Ladyfriend sniffed and noticed a distinctly awful smell. While my housekeeping has suffered a bit recently, this was an unprecedented and unacceptable level of scent to be picking up indoors. Upon closer investigation, it was determined that some dog feces had lodged deep within the treads of one of her boot soles. It had apparently happened early enough in our walk that the ground meeting surface of her boot had been scraped clean (so nothing on the floor thank goodness), but the stubborn remainder was deeply entrenched and aggressively fragrant. Something had to be done. Now.
She removed her boots and asked me to stick them somewhere outside. As I headed out, I remembered that I had left the garden hose uncoiled and at the ready near my tomato planters on the second-story porch. I headed there, jammed one hand into the offensive Doc Marten and grabbed the hose nozzle with the other. I sprayed the "oil, fat, acid, petrol, alkali resistant" but dogshit prone sole at pointblank range, being careful to avoid any sprayback (because eew, just eew). Seeing as I didn't want to cropdust my own yard with even a trivial amount of poo, I aimed for the center of the street, having determined there were no pedestrians in the immediate area. A couple of cars passed through the stream, speeding as many will on my street, but the cleansing process otherwise went smoothly. I left the boot on the first floor front porch, went back inside for a Lysol-soaked paper towel to get the boot extra clean, and disinfected the glistening boot sole by the front door.
A man walked up to the end of my driveway in sort of a huff.
"Do you know what you were doin'?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, what?" I replied.
He repeated his initial question, which I had heard clearly, but not yet grasped. He went on to say that I had been spraying the hose out into the street. I was keenly aware of this, having been doing so minutes earlier, but still failed to understand what his problem was.
"You were getting water on the cars!"
I stared blankly, still confused.
"Um, they're weatherproof" I said finally.
"What?!" he replied, still annoyed and obviously not comforted by my helpful factoid.
"The cars.. they're weatherproof... They can get wet" I explained, more confident that this was a very reasonable point to make.
"I just washed my car!!" he exclaimed, more annoyed now, but finally clarifying his gripe.
"So don't drive through the water! Or honk or something! All you had to do was ask, and I could have turned off the hose. It's that easy"
"Alright, I'll let it go this time" he said as he turned and walked off.
A few thoughts:
-I thought it was best to refrain from explaining what I was actually doing with the hose. Learning that the arcing stream that tagged his cherished ride had fecal flavor crystals would have only made him angrier.
-Speeding has been a chronic problem since the city removed the temporary speed bumps from my street years ago. Anyone driving at or near the speed limit and paying attention would have seen a water spray long before they were anywhere near it. Said driver could then make an informed decision with regards to how to proceed.
-What a whiny little (middle-aged) baby this guy was being about his shiny car. With the exception of the occasional Borinqueneers Family Night, Frog Hollow is not a car show.
-I would like to pat myself on the back for not addressing the man as "Dumbass" or any other appropriate, but likely aggravating term during this exchange. This was not easy. If I had to hold back any more snark, I could have physically choked.
-This guy was looking for a fight, albeit a pointless one, and it was best not to encourage that. If he didn't "Let it go this time" would I have had to mount a four-boot defense, using the ones in my hands and the ones on my own feet? Would I have been able to resist making really bad puns (i.e. "Time for a boot-down!" or "Paging Dr. Marten!" or "Booty call!") while literally kicking his ass with all four extremities on my front stoop? It's best that it ended as it did.
I probably could have run him off with the puns.