About Me, Sundry

What is Danny’s f!cking problem?

So, I dropped by the DMV this morning to finally get my Cali registration squared away, so I drove to work.

A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
A photo on Flickr
dannyman’s Bishop Ranch Litterbug photoset.

On my way through the parking lot for the trip back home, I heard a paper cup hit the ground, and saw a guy getting into his car. Was he littering? No, that’s immoral and illegal, he wouldn’t be tidying up his car for the ride home by tossing his paper Starbucks cup on the ground, right?

So, I walked over, knocked on his window, and let him know he dropped his cup. I knelt down to pick it up for him, but it had rolled too far under the car. He acknowledged this fact as a breeze brought the cup to my foot and I handed it to him, which he accepted. I turned to leave.

Now normally if some enviro-wacko confronts you about your anti-social behavior the polite thing to do is to take your litter back and throw it out the window somewhere where the other guy won’t see you, but as I walked away, the dude solved his crisis by tossing the cup a few car lengths away from his car and pulling out for the get-away.

I asked myself “What would Masa do,” as I reached for my Sidekick to see if I could catch a photo of his license plate number as he drove away. I was a bit nervous since I was a pedestrian confronting a car with an anti-social driver, and the camera on the Sidekick powered up too slowly so where I thought I might have gotten lucky, I got the “camera is powering up” screen.

Ah well, I walked back to my car, cup in hand, as there was no trash receptacle along the way. I paused long enough for the chance of an admiring glance at a lady who was getting in her SUV, and as I got in my own car a green Saturn came roaring up and stopped behind my station wagon, at a blocking angle on the passenger side of my rear.

A load rap at my window.

“Yes,” I answered.

“What is your f!cking problem?” The guy was going on middle-age. Brownish skin, greying facial hair, tinted glasses and a growing gut.

I thought a moment. After all, we all have our f!cking problems from time to time. But it seemed that of the two of us . . .

“I don’t have any f_cking problems, sir. Can I help you?”

He wanted to know about my f!cking problem. I told him he dropped his cup, did he still want it back, he did not, “I just want to avoid littering,” I explained.

He went back to his car, taking a moment to study the back of mine, which is distinguishable from miles away, with the rope ratchet holding the rear door shut, the soon-to-be-changed Illinois plates, the “Bin Laden used your gas money” bumper sticker and some pro-bike, pro-environment bumper stickers with which Uncle John decorated the

I once had a guy imply that he has slashed my tires in retaliation for not allowing him to steal my spot from a crowded Target parking lot. I noted his license plate but never got around to troubling the Chicago Police with that incident of Road Rage. But as a city boy I am hip to the threats of parking lot vigilante justice. Of course, I usually take the bus, so I don’t mind if he wants to seek out my car tomorrow . . .

He gave me plenty of time to power up the Sidekick’s camera and take a few shots of the rear of his car from the sheet-metal safety of my wagon, since I had no choice but to follow him out of the parking lot anyway. I really doubt the number comes out, but hey, I guess he helped solve what minor f_cking problem I did have just then. Maybe tomorrow I can cruise the parking lot and find the plate number of a certain green Saturn and ask the San Ramon Police if they’d care to pay him a visit.

We’ll see . . .

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