Me and Snags at it, again.
Snags is riding shotgun in the rental, setting up appointments on Craigslist while I drive. Its a Jetta; good on gas and has some balls so we can get where we're goin' in a hurry. He fuckin' hates the way I drive, though. I don't blame him. I miss exits, make some psycho moves, and have to have it pointed out to me that the light I'm sitting at has turned green (or the light I just went through was red) on a pretty regular basis. But it's how we started this thing however-many years ago, so we do what we do.
If you don't know what we do, we work the grind - buy for a nickel, sell for a dime. We've done it for over a decade, logged thousands of miles and flipped tens of thousands of tickets and we're fuckin' good at it.
In our travels, we encounter all kinds of people - mostly, pretty cool humans. Occasionally, we run into the odd fuckstick. It's unavoidable. When we were younger men, we'd allow ourselves to get distracted and get into beefs, but as we've wizened with age we realize that such episodes cost us time, and time is money, and money is why we are here. Also, speaking for myself, I've come to believe that there is no downside to being nice to people, even when they suck. So, I make the effort.
Anyways, Snags has found someone on Craigslist and I'm driving to meet them in Bellevue while Snags continues doing the clickety-click (that's what Kentucky Fried Mike calls using a computer, so that's what we call it) to set up our next appointment, and it isn't long before some douche-hose tests my Zen.
I'm pissed at myself for not getting a picture of the back of this guy's shirt. I had pulled over in a loading zone, waiting Snags' guy to call when this heavyish, fortysomething white guy with typical male-pattern baldness walks down the sidewalk in the same direction as us. The back of this clown's bright red, XXXL T-shirt reads,
"I will defend the constitution against all ENEMIES, foreign and domestic and DEMOCRAT."
ME (under my breath): "What a fuckin' toolbox."
Snags is already making the "leave-it-alone-Ron" face when his customer calls. I wordlessly assure him that I will (I won't) as he exits the car and goes to meet his guy.
The guy with the shirt hasn't gotten far. He's at the corner waiting for the light to change. I put the car in drive and slowly creep up on him as I roll down the passenger window.
"'Scuse me!"
He stops and turns to me and I continue.
"Hey, I was just wondering. Am I you enemy?"
"You vote Democrat?"
"Yeah."
"Then you're my enemy."
Matter-of-fact-like. He's not mad or anything. Then he turns to walk away but turns back to me as I call.
"'Scuse me! I served four years in the Marine Corps. I took that oath on the back of your shirt. I don't remember that last part being there. Are you saying that me and tens of thousands of veterans, some who gave their lives for their country, are your enemy if they vote for Democrats?"
The guy shrugs and looks at me with this I-don't-know-what-to-tell-you look, like he doesn't have a choice, and says, fatalistically,
"Democrat."
I didn't get mad. I just called after him, sincerely,
"You are not my enemy!"
Cuz I'm a lover.
Snags has returned with some tickets. He gets back in the car (which he notices is half a block west of where it was a few moments ago) and gives me a look.
ME: "What?"
