The Diary of A Simple Man

I work in downtown Boston, but I often see lots of Canada geese near my workplace. Yesterday, though, I saw something that made me say "Wow!". It was a huge turkey, at least three feet tall, standing right out in the open.

Weird!

I had an incredibly bad dream this morning.

I woke up. And suddenly I remembered that we had had another child before Sebastian; a little boy, very much like him but without red hair. And for some reason, we'd given him away to an ignorant young couple that could only be described as white trash. They'd taken him away to live with them in Texas. The pain had been so great that for years we simply couldn't bear to think about it...and we'd ended up forgetting about our first son almost completely.

Until, for some reason, I suddenly remembered him.

We hadn't given him away as a baby; he'd been three or four years old, bright and talkative and loving. We'd promised to talk to him and see him again. But we didn't. And I could only wonder what our precious, intelligent little boy had come to in the care of those trashy strangers.

Throughout the dream, I was sobbing uncontrollably. The thought of our little guy in the hands of strangers, wondering what had happened to us or perhaps forgetting us, was more than I could bear.

I've been feeling odd lately. Different. Happy, since the weekend was so great, but also different in an indefinable way.

I've been deliberately trying to be the last person to get on the train in the mornings, so that I can stand in the doorway and wave goodbye to Sebastian and Teri as the train pulls away. Sebastian blows kisses to me. It makes it harder to go, but I wouldn't miss it for anything.

This morning I watched them until they were out of sight. Then I found a seat.

I had a good book, I had some good music, but I didn't read or listen. Feeling strange, I leaned back and looked up into the gray sky. Couldn't tell you if I was happy or sad. It felt as if I were having a new response to old feelings, or new feelings from an old experience.

I looked up, and for a moment I saw myself flying with translucent wings in a sea of pale clouds.

This evening was lovely; temperate and sunny, with gentle breezes. I was pushing Sebastian in his swing when I noticed something odd: a stranger was walking around in our neighbor's yard. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, had a red shirt hanging out of the back of his jeans, and had black hair and a black mustache. He looked to be about thirty years old.

He was looking around our neighbor's yard in an odd way, as if he were nervous and looking for something. Then he went to their driveway and seemed to be looking in their car. And then, to my amazement, he vaulted the fence and came into OUR yard.

Again, he seemed to be looking around nervously. "Loking for something?" I said to him. Teri came out from the house at the same moment, less than ten feet from him, and said the same thing. She didn't quite make out his answer, but he crossed our yard and climbed over the high fence to our neighbors' parking lot on the other side.

Then he jogged across that lot, and climbed over the NEXT fence. We heard him fall and crash into the trees on the other side; he left his red shirt stuck on the top of that fence.

And then he was gone.

My guess (and Teri's, too) is that he was either being chased by someone, or had stolen something and thought the cops were after him. We never heard or saw any pursuit, though.

Weird!

Oh yes - Sebastian was quite aware and interested in the whole thing. Later, he volunteered his opinion: the "strange man" had lost his home, and was looking for it.

Whew. I'm still shaky.

Okay, here's the story. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I borrow my parents' car and drive Sebastian up to spend the day with them. You see, my parents live only a couple of miles from where I work.

That way, Teri gets a couple of days off, and my folks and Sebastian get to have some fun together. It's a long drive (90 minutes to two hours each way), but it's worth it.

Incidentally, the reason I don't drive one of our cars is that the Neon isn't trustworthy enough for a long drive with the baby, and the van gets lousy mpgs and is also probably not dependable. Plus, parking in Boston is ridiculously expensive.

Eventually we'll probably try to get Sebastian used to riding on the train with me, but we're not at that point yet.

Anyway, I was driving with Sebastian this morning. We were close to our destination, only fifteen minutes away. The trip had been a good one; I'd guessed right on what route to take, so we'd made excellent time with relatively light traffic. And Sebastian had stayed cheerful throughout.

So we're stopped at the light where Cypress St. crosses route 9 in Brookline. There are, of course, many cars stopped ahead of us; we were in line. Suddenly I felt a heavy *BUMP* and our car lurched forward. I looked back, and a black minivan had made solid contact with our rear bumper. I looked at the driver. He was older, probably in his sixties, balding, with grayish hair and a small mustache. He looked at me and made a face like "What's your problem, asshole?".

I pulled forward a little, and a second later he rammed me again, harder. Not enough to cause damage, but it was definitely a hard hit. I opened the door and looked back at him. "What's your problem?" he shouted.

"You're HITTING me, you crazy bastard!" I shouted at the top of my lungs (I can be surprisingly loud). He made a "eh" face and ignored me. Then he hit me again.

Sebastian was getting a bit upset. He started making faces, and talking about a "stinky truck" that needed "diapy on". I tried to calm down and say some relaxing things to him.

At that point the light turned green, so I stepped on the gas and got moving. The minivan ran the red light behind me and came after me. He got pretty damn close to me a few times, but eventually I reached a light where I got in lane to take a left turn, and he went straight. As he went by he screamed something at me, but I couldn't make it out. I didn't even give him the finger.

I swear, until this guy started ramming my rear bumper I had no idea who he was. I hadn't cut him off, hadn't made eye contact, wasn't even aware he was there except as a car behind me. And I was driving totally normally.

Anyway, I got his license plate: 214 GMV, a standard green MA plate. He was in his late 50's to 60's, balding, gray hair with a bit of black, and a relatively small mustache - not Hitler style, but kind of like the Dunkin' Donuts guy. Normal weight range, slightly longish face. No beard that I could see. He was driving a black Dodge minivan, a relatively new model. Last seen heading down Cypress St. towards downtown Brookline and Boston.

I called the Brookline police when I got to my parents' place, and they were spectacularly unhelpful, as the police so often are in these situations. There was nothing they could do, since he hadn't caused damage. I suggested that the guy was a menace to other drivers, but "there's nothing we can do" is a favorite catchphrase with the police. Finally they said they'd keep an eye out for him (yeah, right) and that was it.

Sebastian's fine. I'm still a little shaky and pissed off. What a psycho!

Last night, Teri and I were sitting in the living room watching season premiere of The West Wing. Sebastian had just fallen asleep on his little swing.

Suddenly we heard a loud "BANG" from outside. It was a sound I've heard before: the sound of a car plowing into another car. We looked out the window and sure enough, a white pickup had plowed into the back of my old Honda.

The truck was just sitting there, rammed into the rear bumper. We couldn't see if anyone was in the driver's seat. I went to get my shoes and Teri called the police while watching the pickup. Before I could get my shoes on, though, the pickup suddenly started up again and went backwards up the street. It backed into a side lot and began to turn around, obviously preparing to leave the scene.

In a flash I was out the door and pounding down the street after it, barefoot. Behind me, Teri was shouting "Get the license plate!". I was afraid that the pickup would get away before I could get the plate, but it was moving slowly; I got within a few feet of it and nailed the number cleanly. Then I headed back to the house to wait for the police.

As I was on the front walk to the door the pickup came back. Lumbering up over the curb, it came after me, smashing through our white picket fence, the horn blaring as it raced towards me. The engine hit a high note as the pickup accellerated towards me and the front door. Death was only an instant away.

Okay, sorry. I often fear that my blog is too boring. It needs to be punched up a little, but I guess veering into fiction isn't the answer. Let's get back to reality:

As I was on the front walk to the door the pickup came back. The driver seemed kind of sprawled in the middle of the front seat as he called out "What's the problem?"

He had some sort of accent, and sounded a bit slurred; I couldn't tell if he was drunk. "You hit my car!" I answered, angrily. Long-time Chatter readers may remember that my Honda was also hit-and-run a few years ago, and that the perpetrator was never caught. I was sort of flashing back.

"No I didn't!" He sounded sort of confused, possibly under the influence.

"We saw you!"

"So what (mumble)?"

"I got your plate and we've called the police."

Silence. I went back into the house, and the pickup slowly drove down the street and turned right at the end.

Less than five minutes later the police came down the street. They took the information, looked at the damage (the rear bumper had been disconnected from the car on the left side), and asked if I wanted to file a report. They also told me that the car's registration had expired in August, which wasn't surprising since I'd stopped driving it before then. I had planned to junk it a while ago, but never got around to it.

I talked it over quickly with Teri, and we decided not to press charges; it wasn't worth it. The cops were okay with that, and suggested that I get the car off the street, if I could.

And that was pretty much it. It might all seem like a tempest in a teapot, and perhaps we shouldn't have called the police (not true, always call the police when there has been an accident - and wait until they arrive). But there was one good thing about the situation: parked directly in front of my old Honda was Teri's new (used) van. If the Honda hadn't been there, the van would have been hit instead. Funny, huh?

I just read an interview in Salon (I subscribe). In it, the interviewee is asked about September 11, and says this (emphasis added):

"...it was clearly such a momentous event, such an overwhelming and somber -- I'm sorry, I'm just going to sound banal saying this stuff. Everyone reading this interview went through the day also so I don't need to expand on that."

But I didn't go through that. At the same minute that the first plane swept into the WTC, I was being wheeled into surgery, totally unconscious. By the time I woke up it was all over, and I was still pretty groggy for the next few days. So there seems to be some way in which September 11th, 2001 just didn't happen for me - I mean, it's tragic and awful, yeah, but somehow it's not all that real to me. Despite the fact that I had been to the top of the WTC a few times, and have some vivid memories (actually from standing at the base of the towers - they were so damn tall that they made me feel agoraphobia just looking up, and I don't have agoraphobia).

People act so weird about it all! They're totally willing to close their eyes and put blind faith in an Administration that couldn't possibly be more cynical and obvious in their intention to exploit 9/11 as an excuse to shred the Constitution and loot the country. What the hell happened to everybody? What's the problem? Why did an attack like that turn everyone into pathetic, bleating sheep, begging Big Daddy Bush to take care of them?

Maybe the most disturbing question is this: If I had been awake that day, would I still be asking these questions?

God, I hope so.