It was hot. I was tired. I had enough money for a candy bar, and I thought the sugar might help me for the long walk ahead. I bought a Butterfinger at the Touchless Car Wash. I saw a step with a couple stairs about half a block away. Seemed to be a business, not a private residence. Didn’t look like they were open. It was Saturday. I sat down to eat the Butterfinger.
Suddenly, a hostile voice interrupted the pleasant onset of the desired sugar rush. The ensuing dialogue was most unfortunate.
“I don’t mind you guys sitting here, but I sure hate the mess you always make!”
“Us guys? What guys? There are guys who sit here? I’ve never sat here before! What mess? What the hell are you talking about?”
The man said nothing, but seemed to sneer at me before shutting the door between us. Guess he was the business owner, or property owner, or what-have-you. Jesus! I had just sat down! I’d been walking all day! All I wanted to do was eat my damned Butterfinger, get an energy lift, and move on. Did the guy have to pop me over nothing?
Not to mention, being identified as a member of some group of guys, rather than the individual whom I am, obviously pressed a pretty big button in the Berkeley Boy. Seriously, it was all I could do to bite my lip. Fortunately, the grouch who so grossly growled at me had shut his door on my brewing indignation. Best for both of us, I thought.
I got up to walk away, then noticed that the top my Butterfinger wrapper was lying on the sidewalk, about four feet from the stairs. I must have dropped it there in my hot hungry haste. Gee whiz. Guess that was “the mess you guys always make.”
Next time, remind me to buy a Milky Way instead. Darker wrapper, better blend.