My girlfriend told me that a man had tried to hang himself in the tree out in front of her house with his tie. Apparently, he had decided that his life was to be consummated right then and there in front of her 1940's white bungalow (perhaps lacking an identity, a lover, money, or maybe even a neuron misfire) until someone called the proper authorities and he was taken away wearing what I'd imagine was a starched shirt and a face full of confusion.
"Look, the tie is still on the branch," she said. The culprit was gray with blue vertical stripes and dancing in the breeze as the sunlight glinted off the fabric. (eventually, the tie created a life and mystique of its own, ceasing to be an inanimate symbol of economic good faith and encouraging me to acknowledge it-as I did almost every time I walked by.)
I pointed out that the branch (which was about 8 feet off the ground) was inadequate for such an undertaking as it would break instantly under the weight of even an average-sized man. The scenario was like trying to hang a piano from a piece of string - it's a fool's errand and doomed to fail from the start.
"How would I know what he was thinking...just another weirdo."
We were headed to the Mexican swap meet where I was to find myself as the only gringo who had even bothered to show up that broiling day. The girlfriend was tickled by this. She bought an elote (corn) with chili powder, and I bought a random, mysterious, and seductive box of baseball cards and a Mexican League (Toros de Tijuana) baseball cap from a large, sweaty, ungainly man who clearly didn't want to be there. He grunted in an undistinguishable language, too remote to be interpreted. I wasn't sure if we were in accord with the price so I just held up a 20-dollar bill and he nodded in agreement. I took a cursory glance at the cards and then shoved them under my arm.
Later that night we were at home watching a Charles Bronson movie when I decided to thumb through the dusty, frail cardboard.
"Will you look at that...a Rickey Henderson rookie card!" I said.
"Is that good?"
She didn't even look up as Bronson blasted another scumbag in the chest with his metaphorical cock, a .475 Magnum. I was elated to discover the all-time greatest thief and the other on the tube was getting his life snuffed out by a chain-smoking germophobe.
"Yeah, it's good I'd say... rea l good."
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Hey guys...please give Disaffected Musings a look if you get the chance. it's an interesting blog written by a "Moneyball" pioneer with a focus on baseball, cars, and opinions on other various topics.
