Tossing and Tortured 'Till Dawn

I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

I've never told you about how I'm Mexican. And Italian. And Chinese.

Disclaimer: I'm not.

But, a little while ago, sitting on a park bench across from the university, my studying is interrupted by a smack on the heel of my foot. I glance up to see a short man with long, wild hair standing there expectantly. I look at him, furrow my eyebrows, and go back to reading.

The man approaches again, looks around, and kicks the bottom of my food again. "Now, look. Stop that." Why is he kicking my foot?

"Hey," says the guy, "hey." He looks rather pleased with himself.

I shake my head and continue reading, but I'm again interrupted by a kick in the sole. "All right, that's enough of that!" I tell him. It's sort of funny, but getting old.

"Hey," he says, "I know what you are."

"Oh, really?" I ask.

"I know whatchu are. You're, sssome kind of Mexican!" I'm not, though looking at him, the kick-er could be Latino. I'm not sure. I don't say anything.

"HEY!" He exclaims. "I know whatchu are! You's some kinda Italian!"

This is getting weird. But it keeps going. "I know you. I know what you are. You, you somekinda ... Chinese. HEY!" Other people on benches are now looking at this with some puzzlement, and I'm struggling not to break down laughing.

But now he's really got me figured out. "You sonofabeech. I know whatchu are. You're some kinda ... Mexican! Italian! You're some kinda ... CIA! You sonofabeetch! Yous some kinda ... Russian! Chinese!"

"So, let me get this straight. Now I'm a Mexican, Italian, Chinese, Russian, CIA, son of a bitch?"

"HEY!" he shouts. I guess that's his line. "Hey, you sonofabitch. I know what you are! You ... CIA! Chinese! Mexican!"

At this point he decides he's had enough, and goes to find a weapon to take out your humble secret agent. Unfortunately, he's chosen a rather large branch that's still attached to a tree, and he spends several minutes struggling to get it off. It creaks and twists, but is still connected by a lot of fibrous matter to the tree. He puts all his weight on it, yanks and turns, but it won't come off.

After a bit of pulling and pushing, he gives up on the branch, and the leaves whack him pretty solidly in the face as he releases it. "ARRGH! You sonofabeetch!" Picnickers have been disturbed by this, and I can see a couple of campus Public Safety Officers starting to walk this way. He grabs his bag, looks at me once more, and shouts "CIA! Italian!"

I can still hear him grumbling the assortment of nationalities as he walks down the street.

Ain't schizophrenia fun?


  • At 6:06 AM , Blogger Al Maviva said...

    Does it kind of makes you wonder what insane people did before there was such a thing as "tenure," no?

  • At 9:47 AM , Anonymous Anonymous said...

    Instead of calling you CIA, I would've gone with "ninja." Much cooler. :-)


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