Most days the big tall up walker comes from their den. I hear him get up and he goes in the grass inside and marks his spot and makes it go away. Why do the tall up walkers make their mark go away? Sometimes you have to get the spray out because there is too much inside, but even then it is good to find a good place for it so everyone can know you were there. They do such strange things. He marks the spot and makes it go away and then he walks by me and Nodorastop and makes noises where they make the food that is not for us. They make so many foods that we do not eat and the foods smell good. They smell good and we do not eat the food. The up walkers eat the food. Now he is not making food he is making the water with the smell. He always makes the water with the smell in the dark before the light. He wakes up and makes the water with the smell. He gives us more water and gives us the food.

The food! The food! What is the food what kind of food is it what what food food my food it is time to eat the food.

Oh, it is the same food. Again.

But the others may come so I will eat this quickly.

Now we must go outside and it is good because the spray is very full in me and it is time to make my mark. Nodorastop runs to him by the door because she thinks that whoever is first will win. She is not smart. Whoever gets to the opening first just has to sit there longer. While he puts the bind on Nodorastop I grab another bite of food. I don’t have all the teeth I used to, so it takes me longer to eat. If I get a chance to catch a mouthful without Nodorastop or the others nearby to take the food I will eat it. I start to walk to the open where they wait and I see that he has a bind for me too. I hate the bind. I can walk by myself and I know where to go and I will not run around but I still have to wear the bind. It does not hurt but I do not like to wear it. I let him put the bind on me but just to make sure I go out the opening first. I go out first because I am brave and fast. I am good and boss and I go out first. He can not stop me because he is not as fast or good. He tries to act mad because I was first but that is too bad. I was first.

We are walking in the tunnel with the sounds all around. I do not walk fast or slow because of the bind. If one of us tries to go to fast then he makes the bind pull and that is not good. But I walk in the right place and right now Nodorastop walks in the right place and the feel of the pack is on us. We walk in a pack and a pack is good because nothing can stop a pack. A pack moves together and when you are in a pack you are good and right. We walk in a pack all the way to outside.

When we get to outside I see the place to put my mark. I try to run but the bind. The bind is bad. The bind is more bad than all of the not food feelings because he does not know where to put a mark. Last night the mark was so close but he did not let me go all the way to it. I had to wait for Nodorastop to make her mark and then I put my mark on top of it. That is more good than to make your mark go away like the tall up walkers do.

blahblahblah we’ll pick this up later

I found the Barq’s straight away and then headed for the frozen goods bin. Lo and behold, there were several flavors of ice-cream… but no vanilla. This presented complications. Childhood experiments had taught me that chocolate was no good for floats so I extended that result to mint chocolate chip and strawberry and whatever the hell else was in there. Neapolitan was present, but I had no interest in all the trouble involved in gutting the vanilla out. Besides, those childhood gustatory experiments had also revealed that while neapolitan can be something of a treat, its component parts- the chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla- were never best in class.  So I was kind of stuck, faced with a deep yearning for a root beer float and only having half the ingredients on hand. That’s when I spotted the fix.

Now Blue Bunny is generally pretty crappy as frozen novelties go, but when faced with same or nothing the bunny will have to do. And what did I see lined up in the case but brick after brick of Wells’ Blue Bunny ice-cream sandwiches. Sandwiches wouldn’t need gutting, per se. More like skinning. And it’s not like I’d mind handling a little chocolate. Snatch one, snatch two and to the register and out the door and home.

Into the glass with the ice-cream from one sandwich and in with some Barq’s and then for a taste. Now I’ve already mentioned my lack of love for the Bunny. Even though the label on the Barq’s bottle assured me that it was in fact “good”, its goodness was not enough to bring the sub-par up to where I needed it to be. I was brought up in a pretty strict “don’t waste food” home, though, so I downed the whole thing and then went ahead and had the sandwich just to be done with the intersection of crappy ice-cream and my domicile.

As I was finishing this, I received a call from Mister Fix. Neither of us having anything better to do, I was invited over for an evening’s drinking and conversation. The weather was beautiful out, so I opted to walk the thirteen blocks or so.

After an uneventful bit of meandering the little white house was in my sights. I went in and had a fine time with Mister Fix and Miss A and Money and Napalm and even little Ju-Ju. There was drinking and smoking and music and conversation and general doing of things we naturally did in those magical times at the turn of the century. Eventually Miss A retired and so Mister Fix and I took to drinking in earnest, as was our wont. We carried on a bit more and had a fine time of it.

I’m skipping over many details here. I do this not to protect the perception of the company I was keeping, for truly their reputations are spotless and there is nothing I could disclose that would alter this state of affairs one bit. No, reader, the reason I may gloss over details sometimes is to protect you. It would bore you to tears to read Dickensian pages detailing every little going-on. What records we listened to. The thoughts in my head as I collected another beer from the fridge. How many times Money needed to be told that he stank. (Which would be a great many, for truly that dog did smell.) No, all of this went down with little or no variance from any other evening passed in that little house, and that was fine. A part of God’s eternal plan for youths hell-bent on misspending their young adult years.

Except for one little thing.

See, I’ve mentioned that the house was small. That’s because it was. And sometimes small houses are laid out in creative fashions so as to accommodate all of the amenities one takes for granted in our technological age. This small house was no different. Upon entering, you were faced with the living room (as is customary). Straight through was the kitchen and further back presented a fork. One way led down to the basement- home to the laundry facilities and Krylon studio. The other way led to the backyard. But back to the living room for a second. Standing in that well-appointed room with its three functioning televisions and phonograph player and generous couch, one would see a door that led to the two critical rooms I have thus far left out- the bedroom and then through there the bathroom.

THE bathroom.

I guess that’s a fine arrangement if one never has guests. Or perhaps if one has guests which one does not want hanging out for great periods of time. It always felt to me kind of prying to use their restroom- like I had to maintain laser focus on the quick u-turn path I would take entering their room (not seeing anything I shouldn’t see!) and then turning into the bathroom. My solution to this more often than not was to make use of the backyard if my discomfort with passing through their space was too much. And if Miss A was asleep? There was no question that Big Sky Country held certain charms that could be appreciated in the span of a minute or so.

Well, this evening Miss A was most certainly in bed so I took a step out back to appreciate Nature in all her splendor and to heed her unmistakable call. And that’s when it came. William S. Burroughs perfectly described it as that cooold knocking. I had no intention of handling that business on premises. The backyard most certainly not suitable, and neither was the bathroom. No, this had a sense of… messiness to it that demanded the comforts of home. I bid good evening to Mister Fix and rushed out the front door.

Clearing the steps I discovered that there was a bit more urgency to this call than I had first thought. Such a sense of urgency that maybe even driving would not have been safe. And even though I had gone less than half a block, I simply could not turn around. I could not rap at their door in a state of panic, demanding access to their facilities and then proceed to make use of said facilities a mere six feet from the sleeping Miss A. I had no choice but to soldier on, exercising the control over my body that we are all encouraged to master as soon as we can.

I was pleased to find out that the weather was fair, which was certainly to my favor- it can be rather exhausting clinching every muscle in one’s body in reaction against the cold. There was the occasional chilly Chinook wind, but they didn’t amount to much. No, I was free to focus my attention on walking as quickly as possible and clinching the one muscle that desperately needed to stay clinched.

It can be a tricky thing, trying to convince oneself to remain casual. Take, for instance, the humble itch. Every once in a great while an itch will present itself under circumstances that may make it taboo to scratch. Anyone will tell you that if you think about an itch it will only get worse. The key is to ignore it. This is not an easy trick to master. It takes much discipline. It takes a fair amount of control over one’s thoughts. It takes a little luck.

I was drunk. Discipline and self control were not very likely. If luck was with me, I wouldn’t be in this situation.

Let’s do a word problem together. How long will it take Scott to walk home?

First, let us consider the entire route is thirteen blocks. We have covered five, so the end of this block will make six. Six from thirteen yields seven. So for distance we can note down seven blocks.

Next we must calculate time per block. Subtracting the one block which we used to calculate a speed of eighty seconds per block, we are left with six blocks times (eighty seconds is one minute plus twenty seconds) twenty seconds plus six minutes which leaves us with eight minutes and then subtract maybe the last minute, during which we made these calculations and that puts us at approximately seven minutes. Lucky number seven. Come onnnnn, seven. Yeah, we can do this.

A sense of calm washes over me. I can totally do this. I’ve got what? Five minutes? Five minutes left. Who can’t hold it for five minutes? Completely doable. Yes. No. No no no no no no no no no no no no no. Sharp cold pain creeps up my spine. I am crossing an alley. It is dark. Within the dark there are pools of darker dark. Possible? Possible. But no paper! I could deal with that. No. No I cannot. No. I. Most certainly. Could not. That is for animals. And hobos. And the insane. What if a car would pass? Or what if a dog would alert its owners? No, sir. Keep moving.

…

Calm. Cool. I am so glad I did not do that. I’ve got it together now. Less than a block to go. I come around the corner and there it is- my house! Mannnn. What’s left? Fifty paces to the front door? Another twelve up the steps to my apartment? Ten or so to that heavenly seat? We’ll see. We will ssssssseeoh man. Sharp. Cold. Pain. Do this.

SHIt!

No. False alarm.

But I must adjust my strides. No more can I take long, swift steps. Now the pace must be shortened to a sort of penguin walk. A waddle. Pinned at the knees, I pass through the gate. My keys are in hand, held in position and the front door is negotiated with grace and ease. Now for the steps.

Careful. Keep it together. A penguin could walk up stairs if its legs were three feet long. Couldn’t it?

This penguin will.

Ten.

Hold on.

Nine.

Keep holding that key.

Eight.

Talented penguin.

Seven.

Should trust the world more.

Six.

Should leave my door unlocked.

Five.

Nahhh.

Four.

Gonna do this.

Three.

But it’s gonna be close.

Two.

And the world collapses I shuffled dammit and oh Christ in Heaven do not look upon me it feels so gross so hot and yet cold and it’s wet and good fuck why won’t this door open find the keyhole fucker deal with this key in this hole and turning and opening and flying to the bathroom unfastening my belt en route and through the bathroom door and

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Praise be.

Lactose intolerance is a motherfucker.

There was an itch on the back of my left calf that felt a little too good when I scratched it.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had some kind of skin thing before, but trust me- there’s a different between the usual got an itch kind of itches and the ones that are there for other reasons. Take now, for instance. You’re reading this and you’ve probably got a little itch on your nose or maybe the back of your neck just because you’re reading about itches. Go ahead. Scratch it.

Felt okay, right? Slight discomfort. Then relief. Ahh.

During my funny little time in the Air Force, I met a fellow who had athlete’s foot and would not treat it. He said it just felt so goood to get home and really scratch it. The audience he had when he explained this recoiled in a chorus of schoolgirl “Ewwwwwww”s, but he was unfazed. He got a light in his eyes and he talked about how awfully, shamefully good it felt to scratch his feet when he got home. Uncomfortable chuckles and shuffles and a few faux light-hearted “Man, that’s sick”s and conversation turned elsewhere. Anywhere but there.

An indeterminate time later, I contracted it myself.

At first I didn’t realize what it was. Never having been much of an athlete or gym goer of any variety, I was rarely exposed to the conditions that one associates with the bastards. The showers in the dorms fixed that for me after awhile, I guess. All I know is my feet really started to itch and I kind of understood the way the condition is depicted in commercials. It was a terrible, fiery itch. I made a note to myself to pick up a treatment of some sort the next day and I’d put a stop to it.

Whatever I tried first didn’t work right away.

After a day or four of trying different solutions, I got home one day and started scratching. I found that I could not scratch deeply enough. I wanted to somehow insert a wire brush inside my foot and just wiggle that around for a bit. There’s kind of a maniacal thing going on when scratching an itch like that. And just when I thought I was kind of starting to hurt myself, there was a bright light and a sensation I cannot describe as anything other than the weird cousin of erogenous. It felt goood.

Now, I’ve got a theory about this. And like any theory that gets presented like that, it’s a little crazy sounding. But it works with my little view of the world and I think we all like having our suspicions confirmed. The good ones, anyway. If you suspect there is a man behind you pointing a loaded gun, you are thoroughly relieved when you turn to find a friend holding out a cold beer. I think I’ll have to save talk of theories for some other time, though. My meandering license won’t let me drift quite that far just yet. For now I will inform you that I finally put the bugs down and mostly forgot about the whole episode except for every once in awhile when seeing an ad for some spray or powder or whatever.

So about that rash on the back of my left calf.

I scratched an itch and it felt better than usual. But not the kind of better that I was just talking about. I just needed to explain what goood scratching felt like so that I could let you know that this just felt marginally better than a regular itch. So it was like, different, but it didn’t set off an alarm. Sometimes a thing just happens and then it goes away. I know I’m not the only guy with this approach to physical ailments. Got a cough? Wait a bit- it will go away. Cut your finger a little deeper than a person oughta? Eh, keep it clean and keep an eye on it. Tiny little dry patch on my leg and a tiny bit of itching? No need to flip out. It might just get okay. Besides, there’s anything else to do besides go to the fricking doctor over this.

And what if the doctor said something horrible anyway? Well, I know that’s the first step to treatment, but yeesh.

A friend of mine has psoriasis flare ups once in awhile. He has to put this expensive cream on the spots which happen to be on his feet and he seems pretty embarrassed about it all. Which I’ve never gotten, because if I’m your friend and we’re hanging out and you’ve got a cough I’m not going to get all fussy if you take some cough medicine. Sure, one isn’t usually applying salves or whatever to their feet in polite company, but there’s no need for worlds of decorum when you’re hanging out with real friends. Let your flag fly, I say. Treat your ailment, comrade! Unless you need to jerk your boxers in weird angles in order to treat it. Then you can just take that to another room.

In my family, there seems to be a running theme of bumping into tiny bits of skin cancer. It’s always been benign, so that’s good. Well, you know. I mean, good would be not having anything. But if you’ve got to have it, I presume you want the benign kind. It just sounds so much… nicer.

A month or two ago one of our dogs got a touch of ringworm. I was surprised to have Matt Groening’s words confirmed when I found out that ringworm is neither a ring nor a worm, but actually a fungus. A few weeks of treatments and she’s back to her normal bitchy self.

So I’ve got all this kicking around as far as the leg thing goes. Oh, sorry. Legs thing. Because now it’s in a matching position on my right calf. Could it be psoriasis? I hope not! The name has a nice ring to it so long as you don’t think about what it means. Of course. And it goes without saying that cancer of any disposition would not be welcome on my person. And I think I’ve got enough of a grasp on english that I don’t relish the idea of harboring a fungus named ringworm.

Going by nomenclature alone, athlete’s foot was starting to sound pretty good. It at least implied that I pursue an active, healthy lifestyle of athleticism and also of having feet. Like just about all normal, decent, church-going folk do.

These are my options. And between work and the other things people fill their time with and trying to get a little enjoyment in on the weekends well, having a stranger look me in the eye and dub me Sir Scott, host of any of these things just didn’t seem like the sort of thing I’d like to do. So I just kept backburnering the whole concept.

The other night I noticed a new dry spot on my left hip, right square between the belt line and the upper thigh. I thought about it for a little bit and then thought about something else.

This morning the newest addition was spotted.

J is my heart and my backup conscience and many other things to me. I live in a tastefully appointed apartment because of her eyes. And the wrongness of the situation was made crystal clear by those same eyes.

Whoops.

It didn’t take long for her to come up with several questions about that spot. Good questions. The kinds of questions a person asks when they’re on the outside. Questions like:

What is that?

Does it hurt?

Does it itch?

How long has it been there?

Where do you think it came from?

Is it anywhere else?

How long has it been there?

Haven’t you thought about seeing a doctor about that?

And damn if after a little bit of this I didn’t get a little snappy. I’ve been quietly fretting about this in my way for a couple weeks now, after all. So I gave a little fuss and realized that wasn’t bright. I tried to apologize and acknowledge her concern when I was informed that her main concern was that I hadn’t already seen a doctor about it.

Ugh.

Guys don’t go to the doctor unless a thing is falling off. And I’m not a guy guy. I’ll never be hosting a Super Bowl party or a poker night. I’ll buy some tampons if asked and I won’t fuss about it. But I’m probably not running to the doctor right away over an itchy spot.

But I do need to.

This obviously isn’t going away on its own so I need to find out what it is so that I can show it the door.

I’ve got an appointment next week. I’m looking into it.

Now if you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to relate how we got to this point.

I was doing laundry Sunday. Doing laundry is a pretty boring job. You don’t have to really think about it. You just walk around doing stuff and all the ol’ brain functions can kind of chill out. And that is what I was doing. Just walking up the hall, letting my eyes pass scenery information back to the skeleton crews manning motor functions and navigation, when a new kid in visual processing saw something that looked like three little bags by the door at the end of the hall. So he sent a call down to curiosity central and then the gang got something to check out.

Making my way to the end of the hall, I spot what looks for all the world like three poop baggies.

Which is just ridiculous, because I mean… who leaves poop by the door?

I gingerly lifted one of the bags to check its heft. A little gross, but I really can’t believe it’s poo. Hank’s a good guy and I kinda felt bad for slandering him in my head by just assuming that if something was placed by his door that looked like a sack o’crap it was a sack o’crap because he jus’ don’ givva fug.

Alas, dear readers, poop it was.

But then I remembered that he usually walks his dogs up front and the dumpster’s in the back and I know how it is when you’re trying to get the dogs back inside- you need to get the dogs inside now. So I can totally see dropping the bags by the door to take to the dumpster next time I head out.

Monday we get home and as soon as the back door swings open the smell hits us. No way. No no way.

Top of the stairs and turn around and? Three bags of poo that have been sitting there for what is now at least 24 hours.

He went to work and didn’t take the bags to the dumpster on the way to his car??? WTH?!

I got my dogs, got a garbage bag to do a little cleanup pass in the parking lot and I went ahead and took his bags with, pausing a moment to open the windows to air the place out. Surely that would send a message. I mean, if I left that in the hall and then saw that it wasn’t there anymore I’d either be wondering about what I’d be hearing from the landlords or mortified that someone else found it and cleared it up. Surely I would grasp the error of my ways and cease such vile practices. Surely!

*****************************

Later that night, a lone sentry stood watch at the end of the hall. Where once three of his brethren stood tall, now this one brave mess was left to make sure that his master was left undisturbed. I started to get mad, but then remembered the whole front yard/back yard thing. This business was gross, but a man can make a mistake in judgment. Maybe he was running late that morning and rushed out the door, completely forgetting the three stinking baggies filled with stool. It could happen. Certainly they would be gone in the morning.

They weren’t.

His car was still in the lot, so I could see how perhaps he just hadn’t gone back outside yet. Besides, morning traffic is fun enough without getting spun up about dumb shit.

******************************************

Back from a refreshing and enjoyable day at work capped only by the sheer pleasure of drivetime, mi mamacita and I topped that ever-creaking stair and lo!

We got to the apartment and I grabbed a pen and the trusty Zelda notebook (oh Triforce of Power, guide my pen so that it may reach its target without fail!) and wrote up a perfect screed letting him know that this was gross and bad and I’d tell mom if he did it again and made sure to curse more than would be polite (but not enough to have to wipe my spittle from the vellum) and it was great. I got out my gilding kit and embellished the margins with little angels brandishing swords and singing songs propelled with the righteous anger of the sinless downtrodden. I submitted this opus to my conscience and she held it aloft and gave a cry of “Fuck yeah!” and I tore the sheet from the notebook knowing that I held a sharp, piercing blade. I marched down the hall thusly armed.

The ghost of Martin Luther looked on with pride as I affixed my complaint to his door. “Are you sure that one is enough?” He stood stroking his chin and looking very critical. “If you really want to make an impression, you definitely have to put up more than one page. And nails really drive the point home better than tape. That’s my experience, anyhow.”

This door was so small, though. And so much of the Zelda notebook was given over to shopping lists and jotted down notes and, you know, notebooky stuff. I’d have to flip through the tome for god, like, seconds in order to get a blank page. As I weighed my dedication to the Lutheran cause, the specter pointed to the little soldier in black.

“Affix him to the door. That will surely send a message.”

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I wonder how many a bag of shit would fetch?

**********************

The evening went on and dinner was had and the man hisself hadn’t gotten home yet. The message stood waiting for his return.

J. asked if I was going to leave the note up and I thought about it for a sec and responded with a resolute “Yes.”

She saw the fire in my eyes and she was on board with another hearty “Fuck yeah!”

And to hell with that guy and it’s gross and who does that and rahrahrahrahrah. It was a fine time to be an angry person in our home, for any transgression would have been enough to grab a torch. We were having great fun ratcheting one another up until we realized that having all those words on the door wouldn’t do much to limit drama.

I collected the note and started reading it and was quickly embarrassed. An hour or so removed from the situation and I was looking at one of those notes you see on passiveagressivenotes.com or whatever it’s called. It was still fun to think of unleashing a tirade like that, but what would the result be? A bunch of yelling and shit? Escalation and egos and really. Really.

I left the bag, though.

Of course we later found the bag back where it belonged, standing watch atop the kennel.

A quick internal conference and I gave him the night.

***********************************

A new day dawned and that spiteful intruder stood his ground.

Leaving for work, I snatched the bastard, walked down the stairs, passed the dumpster, and left it on the hood of his car. Point made. Fuck him.

There were a few texts later. It’s funny how you can spot the texts of iPhone users. Something about the joy of typing on that keyboard lends itself to messages which exceed that baleful one four four.

Oh, the content. I won’t reprint it because there’s not much point. You know what kind of text you’d send someone if you suspected them of taping a bag of crap to your door and dropping it on your car. Stuff about saying things to peoples’ faces and he didn’t deserve such treatment and you get the idea. I let him know that we should meet face to face and I’d catch him after work. And then, swept up in the moment, I added that he should think up some excuses for why this leaving crap in the hall was okay. Which got more expected response and I opted to go on about my day.

As I left to pick up J. from work I saw him walking his dogs. I gave a half-assed wave and rolled on.

Back from the rolling fields of hell, J. and I went out back for a smoke and cuppa and I sent him a text about being home and inquiring into his readiness for a chat.

A couple smokes later we decided to head upstairs and work on dinner.

We were in the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. Showtime!

But it was our landlord. With a Christmas card.

And a huge grin.

“Man, is Hank pissed off at you!”

And he recounted to me the tale of how he rapped at young sir’s door and sir did voice his extreme displeasure of a rogue who did besmirch his door with a sack of dung. Verily the swain was rebuffed when the constable informed him that he would have done the same.

I cannot explain my gleeful shock. Did he really think that he had half a case? J. has a sainted friend who teaches in one of our fine city’s middle schools. She once told a funny story about one of her students complaining about the kid who stole his bag of weed. I guess we all go on about our lives viewing things through various filters of justification and we just don’t see things objectively too often.

Perhaps if a person has had a number of emotional events in the past year or so they may have a lot on their mind. Maybe it just doesn’t matter if you forget to take a bag of crap to the dumpster. Everything’s going to shit anyway, right?

Besides, he was given the score when he described the situation to one of the two people I really didn’t want to involve in this. They’re our landlords, not our fricking nannies.

But yeah. Call me childish, I find that last part funny. I just keep letting the scene play out in my head over and over. I don’t know what was actually said, but I can only imagine one script.

a: Those assholes taped shit to my door!

b: What?! That is crazy!

a: I know! They are terrible people!

b: Where did they get shit from?

a: Right here, by my door!

b: Avast, ye scoundrel! Your words do offend my sense of reason and try my patience for good measure!

********************

So like I said, I’m pretty sure that’s the end of that. Maybe if I had to do it all over again I would have just addressed him when I first noticed it. I just can’t help but think that it’s the sort of thing you shouldn’t have to  point out to another person. It would be like telling someone they have to actually load a plate at a buffet and not just stand there eating things out of the steam pans.

Oh well. At least I got to use my gold leaf kit.