News Ticker

A short confrontation…

I hit the bricks at 6:15 on the dot Saturday morning. I love that time; quiet, no traffic, lots of chirping and commotion from birds. It’s the favorite time in my walk.

But my walk wasn’t two minutes old and only 40 yards from the front entry to my complex when I spotted a large green bottle in a small, rock lined decorative creek that fronts a boutique development of high end million dollar mega-mansions just across the street. The bottle literally was 10 yards off the sidewalk.

As I reached down to retrieve it

The offending bottle that sparked a :15 mini-war of words.

The offending bottle that sparked a :10 mini-war of words.

came some loud, sharp words: “Get out of here or I’ll call the police.” It came from behind some bushes 15 yards up toward the first home. I could see the guy out walking his dog. The holly bushes sequester the development from us riff raff.

My response was equally harsh: “In your f–king dreams, asshole.” And that was the extent of it. He didn’t respond and maybe I wasn’t loud enough. Perhaps I should have tossed the hard plastic bottle up his way. Best case he would have recycled it and saved my load a little weight and space. We’ll never know. If he indeed called the Charlotte Mecklenburg police (doubtful), I was already long gone.

The rest of the walk was pretty uneventful; The usual PepsiCoca Cola and Dasani bottles, the requisite Bud Light and other beer cans, the expected McDonalds, Burger King and other fast food flotsam. All the fireworks happened early.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: