I am nine years old and about to learn my first "man's inhumanity towards man" lesson. On a grocery run with mom in the Hudson, she agrees to let me make my way down to the barber shop using the sidwalk that runs high above Lake Menomin. I am to get the hair cut and then wait there for her.
On my way, I pass a pick up truck, the back of which is holding a group of kids ranging in ages from 10 to 15. As I pass the oldest of the bunch says: "Hey kid! Come here!" Thinking they want to visit with me, I move toward the truck.
"Come up a little closer," says the ring leader. so I close the gap to within spitting range -- and that is exactly what the entire group does. they all "hawk lugies" at the same time, some of which land on my face.
I turn away, stumbling back down the street, the sounds of their jeering laughter in my ears, trying feebly to comprehend what has happened.
Later when my mother picks me up at the barber shop, I say nothing of the incident. In fact, to this day, I very rarely speak of it.
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Highway AA takes me out to Highway 12 east from my place off Otter Creek. It is the second year of my ownership of my proudest possession, a cherry red, lowered, white-walled, Harley Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle.
As I near the intersection of Highway 12 and AA, I see two seventh grade (I am estimating) youths turning onto AA on thier bikes. It isn't long and I have closed the gap between us. As I pass them, the one closest to my side of the road raises his head and does it: HE HAWKS A LUGIE IN MY DIRECTION!
I can hear him chuckling to his buddy even over the rumbling of my bike as I reach the corner. The switch in my brain clicks and begins running the incident from my childhood. I am furious. I wheel the big bike around and start back down AA in first gear, occasionally taking it out of gear and revving my pipes, moving inexorably toward the two bicyclists who suddenly, hearing my revving engine, look over their shoulders, and their body language bespeaks utter terror.
I continue in slow pursuit. It takes no time before my targets realize, as they pedal standing up to gain speed, that they are not going ot outrun me on the road and they veer offroad across an open field towards Affordable Tire, thinking I won't follow, but they are wrong. For me, the fun is just beginning.
I veer off also and keeping my distance, watch them pedal furiously, darting looks over their shoulders. Finally they realize the futility of trying to escape me and they pull up short to face me.
I roll up to them, rev it one more time for effect, and then shut down the bike.
"Why are you following us?"
"I think you know why."
"I didn't do anything."
"No but your buddy here did. What was it you did, buddy?"
"I wasn't spitting at you -- I was spitting at the ground!"
"A person who is spitting at the ground does not lift his head and turn it towards someone. You spit at me. And I think it's time you learned a lesson. Where do you live?"
"We live near here."
Well, I've got a good mind to do one of two things. Either run over your bikes or have you lead me to your parents so I can talk to them."
"God, we're sorry, mister, We really are!"
"Thanks for the apology. I'll let it go at that. But I better not ever see the two of you on this road again."
And I fired up the bike, backed away, turned and rolled back towards AA. What my shaken friends couldn't see was the smile on my face.
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I stop at the McDonald's at the junction of Highways 12 and I94 to grab a burger before I hit the road to Minneapolis. Ahead of me is a car with two college age girls. They pull up to the outside order window, make their order, then pull ahead to the first window and pay for their food.
Meanwhile I place my order, and move up behind them, leaving a space of fifteen yards or so. I can see that they are absorbed in animated conversation. A minute or two goes by. The animated discussion continues but now at the far pick up window I can see the gal, bag of goodies in hand, waving at them, trying to get their attention, but to no avail. I wait a bit and then, not to be rude, I just tap my horn. The gals turn around and look at me. I point towards the woman with the their food. They turn back, see the woman waving at them.
Then they do something totally inexplicable to me. They turn back to me and give me the finger.
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Speaking ot that gesture, it brings to mind the day I was pulling into the then London Square Mall parking lot when out of no where and into my line of vision comes this kid on a skateboard, cap on backwards, and he rolls right in front of my vehicle and as he does, he gives me the finger! I slam on the brakes with my heart in my throat.
Now, as I think back on it, I wish I had run over the little bastard; GEE, OFFICER, HE CAME OUT OF NO WHERE AND I DIDN'T SEE HIM UNTIL IT WAS TOO LATE. LOOK, NO SKID MARKS AT ALL.
Then there was the day I was at the other mall, parked in a very full lot. I begin to back out slowly and I hear a horn blow. I stop and pull back into my parking place. I don't see anybody pass my rear, so I begin backing out again and it happens again. Just as I begin to clear, a blast of a car horn. I hit the brakes and pull back in.
I wait for a bit, then try again with the same results. the horn blasts. I pull back into my spot but now I get out so I can check it out better.
Across the way I see a car full of kids, laughing their asses off at me.
I hate that.
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