Exercise 14 pg. 40

It’s kind of odd that I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he had a sister named Tasha. I remember what he looked like, and even what their house looked like. I was 11, and he was 16 or 17. We rode the bus to and from school together. He always swore and was just generally mean and grumpy, especially in the mornings. He wore dirty jeans and grungy flannel shirts. He smelled like cigarettes and like a mechanic. He had dirty fingernails like he was always working on a car. He had dark, messy hair that always seemed to need to be cut, or combed, or something.
When he got on the bus, he would bump into kids that were sitting down or drag his backpack over the tops of the seats intending to hit people in their heads. I was scared of him. He was almost an adult, and he was certainly the size of an adult. I’m sure it made him happy to be intimidating to others even if we were only kids. One morning, in the winter, as he was making his way to the back of the bus, he bumped my little brother. He bumped him hard. He stumbled because of it, and it made him angry. Then, he shoved my brother down into the seat because he was mad. My brother wasn’t specifically hurt, but he was scared. It made me really mad. I was sick of him always bumping into people and making kids feel like they had to sit as close to the window as possible to stay out of his way. So, I got out of my seat and I shoved him. He only moved a little, and then of course he became even more angry. He had his gloves in his hand; the kind of tan gloves that people use for working. He pulled his hand with the gloves way up in the air and slapped me across the face with his gloves. They were dirty and smelly, and they scraped right across my eye. It really hurt and I wanted to cry, and he just laughed as he went to his seat and sat down.
I picture him the same way as an adult. I know he didn’t graduate from high school. He is probably a mechanic; one of the really dirty ones who work at a junk yard. He probably drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor. He got fat, and has sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work. He never got married, but has two kids he pays child support for and never sees.


Exercise 27 pg. 69

He drives a rusty S-10 truck with the little cartoon guy peeing on the Ford logo on his back window, and crumpled McDonald’s bags and cigarette butts on the floor.
He wears dirty jeans with a bulge from his wallet on the back pocket, sweat-stained shirts that are covered with oil stains from work, and steel-toed boots that used to be tan, but are oily and grimy with mud caked on the bottoms. He doesn’t wear a watch or a ring or a hat. His hair is still messy, but thinner now. He always looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days.
His one-story house has no siding, just that pink and green Styrofoam type stuff. His porch is a mess of trash and boxes. He only has patches of grass in his yard; the rest is dirt and weeds. He has a couple of long-haired, dirty dogs. They don’t have collars or leashes; they just run in and out of his open front door. They are happy dogs who run out to see new people.
He has no curtains, just sheets stapled up around the bigger windows in his house. All the walls are the same, used to be white, but have yellowed over the years. It’s not clean, but not really messy either. Pizza boxes on a table. Dirty clothes are thrown over the backs of chairs and the tops of doors. A lamp sits on a table with the shade tilted to one side. Dog bowls are on the floor with food spilled around them. He has one of those old console televisions that sit on the floor. No pictures or clocks on the walls; just a calendar with women in bikinis posing on or near cars.


My conclusions

I am surprised that I can’t remember this guy’s name. I feel like he was raised to be the way he is by his family. Some families are like that, but by the time he was a teenager, he could be his own person and decide not to be a bully.
I am also surprised by how clearly I formed his new life in my mind. I can see his house and yard. I can picture him sitting on his couch watching a Nascar race. I find it odd that I picture him as the kind of guy that I can’t help myself to just detest. I feel like I am somehow prejudiced against people who are like how I’ve described him; which is surprising to learn about myself since a lot of my extended family (and my father) are just like this.