And Then I Blew Up The Indians
or Rage, Rage Against The Occupancy of the Handicapped Spot
A couple of months ago, a new family moved into the apartment below ours. They looked harmless at first - a young couple with their toddler and a pair of grandparents. In fact, for a while, we never heard a single peep work its way up to our domain. Even the baby was silent. This is probably the closest I've ever been to a baby without making it cry.
One night I was out at Kroger picking up some snacks. It was around Christmastime, so the weather wasn't bitterly cold, but definitely cold enough to make a jacket a must-have. I gathered my bags, locked the doors, and walked up to the sidewalk leading to our stairs.
Then crazy Grandpa India comes charging out of his door in a skirt.
You're probably shaking your head, calling me ten different kids of culturally intolerant. But I'm telling you it was a skirt. I walked within three feet of the man when I went up the stairs, but his eyes never deviated from whatever was fascinating him in the trees across the way. I left him wandering in the parking lot.
Weeks passed. I decided to let the skirt incident slide. We finally figured out that the family drives a silver Toyota Camry. Good looking car, so it spoke well of them. They took the baby out during the first couple of snows, bundled up very cutely, apparently to take a personalized photograph for every person alive back in India. We figured it might have been the first time they had ever seen snow. So it was acceptable, bordering on slightly-endearing.
Then Mr. Eatingcowissacreligousyouinsensitiveasshole started parking in the handicapped spot.
While we don't have anyone in our block of apartments who sports an official handicapped plate or hanging tag, there is an elderly couple right across from the Indians. The wife down there is so bent over with age that she's nearly bent in half. So the husband (Rick) always drives their car up to the handicapped spot to let her in and out of the car. These people need the spot, not the damn Indians. While the Indian grandparents are indeed old (and the sanity of the grandfather seems to come into question more and more frequently), they can still run circles around the elderly woman.
All of this reminds me of my last quote and St. Augustine's quote. We're certainly angry at the way things are. But courage to change them? That well is rather dry. Is it none of our business, or is that simply rationalizing cowardice? Legally, since no one has official handicapped status, nobody should be using the spot. In terms of "the right thing to do," somebody oughta put Crisco under the door handles of the Camry.** For now, I'm hoping that the old husband talks to the Indian guy and that they come to some sort of nice agreement all by themselves.
Rick could invite them over for beef tenderloin.
** - This is actually a really dickheaded thing to do. Don't do it.
or Rage, Rage Against The Occupancy of the Handicapped Spot
A couple of months ago, a new family moved into the apartment below ours. They looked harmless at first - a young couple with their toddler and a pair of grandparents. In fact, for a while, we never heard a single peep work its way up to our domain. Even the baby was silent. This is probably the closest I've ever been to a baby without making it cry.
One night I was out at Kroger picking up some snacks. It was around Christmastime, so the weather wasn't bitterly cold, but definitely cold enough to make a jacket a must-have. I gathered my bags, locked the doors, and walked up to the sidewalk leading to our stairs.
Then crazy Grandpa India comes charging out of his door in a skirt.
You're probably shaking your head, calling me ten different kids of culturally intolerant. But I'm telling you it was a skirt. I walked within three feet of the man when I went up the stairs, but his eyes never deviated from whatever was fascinating him in the trees across the way. I left him wandering in the parking lot.
Weeks passed. I decided to let the skirt incident slide. We finally figured out that the family drives a silver Toyota Camry. Good looking car, so it spoke well of them. They took the baby out during the first couple of snows, bundled up very cutely, apparently to take a personalized photograph for every person alive back in India. We figured it might have been the first time they had ever seen snow. So it was acceptable, bordering on slightly-endearing.
Then Mr. Eatingcowissacreligousyouinsensitiveasshole started parking in the handicapped spot.
While we don't have anyone in our block of apartments who sports an official handicapped plate or hanging tag, there is an elderly couple right across from the Indians. The wife down there is so bent over with age that she's nearly bent in half. So the husband (Rick) always drives their car up to the handicapped spot to let her in and out of the car. These people need the spot, not the damn Indians. While the Indian grandparents are indeed old (and the sanity of the grandfather seems to come into question more and more frequently), they can still run circles around the elderly woman.
All of this reminds me of my last quote and St. Augustine's quote. We're certainly angry at the way things are. But courage to change them? That well is rather dry. Is it none of our business, or is that simply rationalizing cowardice? Legally, since no one has official handicapped status, nobody should be using the spot. In terms of "the right thing to do," somebody oughta put Crisco under the door handles of the Camry.** For now, I'm hoping that the old husband talks to the Indian guy and that they come to some sort of nice agreement all by themselves.
Rick could invite them over for beef tenderloin.
** - This is actually a really dickheaded thing to do. Don't do it.
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