Okay…SO….finding a Dry Cleaner in the vicinity of my property was an exercise in futility. I ended up having the wife drop a few jackets of mine off at Victor’s Dry Cleaning in Huntington last week. I had an appointment in Huntington early Friday morning and according to their webpage, Victor’s opens at 8 a.m. Straight from my appointment to Victor’s I go, arriving there at 8:04, only to find the place locked up with all the lights out.
Due to the recent weather and the conditions of the road, I decided to sit in the FJ Cruiser and wait a little bit to see if anyone showed up for work. Victor’s is on 6th Avenue, between 7th and 8th streets. The snow and ice had made parking on 6th Ave less than ideal, but they had parking spaces cleared off in the alley that runs beside the cleaners. I’ve got a cup of coffee, good music and heat…I can wait a bit.
While sitting in the FJ, I’m looking down the alley between 6th and 7th Avenue and I’m watching a heartbreaking scene of homeless people diving in dumpsters for clothing or hidden treasures that they can use in some form or fashion. As I’m watching this and contemplating the state of our society, I notice a head pop around the corner of the building for just a second. A minute later that same head popping around the corner catches my eye again. This goes on for a few minutes in an almost comical fashion.
A text chirped in on my phone and I looked down to see I’d received one of those “Tell Us About Your Experience” surveys from the VA in reference to the appointment I’d just left. When I looked back up, I saw the rest of the body that went with the head that kept peeking around the corner…and he drew his bow and shot an arrow into the grill of my FJ.
NOW….it’s not as bad as it sounds. The bow was made of a long, thin branch from a tree and an old shoe lace. The “arrow” was nothing more than a stick that had been cleaned of it’s bark and wasn’t even as big around as a pencil. The arrow bounced off the front of the FJ and no damage was done.
BUT…I was instantly pissed off. I flew out the driver’s side door of that truck ready to whip that little bastard’s ass. As the door is closing behind me, I barked “What the fuck are you doing?”
With a look of nothing less that sheer pride in his eyes, this guy put one hand on his hip, blew his chest out, rolled his shoulders back and gestured with his other hand in a wide sweeping motion as if talking to the warriors who followed him into battle and heartily exclaimed “I have slain the mighty beast!”.
At this point I’m half way between Sir Lancelot and the FJ with a scowl on my brow and fists clinched…and I stopped dead in my tracks. That “pissed off” is quickly drained from me and I started seriously assessing the situation. This guy is dressed in rags and has an old blanket made into a makeshift cloak that’s tied around his neck. He’s wearing one of those old quilted helmet liners that come down over the ears and snap under the chin, one high-top tennis shoe and one rubber boot. The old scarf tied around his waist held some sort of cardboard tube that was acting as a quiver for his arrows. By this point, he’s holding court with his fellow knights, speaking (actually quite eloquently) about the courage and determination that is required to slay such a savage creature.
NOW…I can no longer throw this guy a beatin’. There’s obviously more going on in his mind than I’m aware of. But I’m standing here in this alley looking like a guy who’s pissed off…so I’ve kinda gotta do something. So, I barked, “HEY…that’s MY beast…don’t shoot it again”. I’m staring him dead in the eyes to ensure that he knows that he did wrong when I see his entire demeanor change from pride to some sort of adulation. He swings his hands in this wide, flourishing sweep as he performs this curtsy kinda bow looking maneuver that leads him to a kneeling position in front of me as he raises his hands toward me and announces to his warriors “HAIL…The Beast Master!!”
Once I found the composure to wipe the smile off my face, I tried to talk to him, but he picked up his bow and scurried up the alley, ducking behind dumpsters and cars as he went…ya know…you can never be too careful with beasts roaming the area.
As I turned to get back in the FJ, I glance at the front of it. The short, thick, boxy stance…the bumper, winch, brush-guard and all the lights…road-salt grey icicles hanging off the corners of the bumper looking like teeth…the growl of the engine. Okay….I get it.
And actually…it takes a pretty big set of balls to attack something that looks like that with a couple sticks and a shoelace.
BUT…from this day forward…I will formally be recognized as The Beast Master, as ordained by the leader and members of the 6th Avenue Beast Slayers Union (Local 000)