knox snooze

Succotash my Balzac, dipshiitake.

Bass Track

There are several parking garages around campus. The one we were stuck in is the most closed-in and catacombish (a word I made up). Three of the parking levels are underground, and the ramps from one to the next are tunnels encased in concrete, which act quite effectively as bass resonators if you happen to be caught in one with some dude in a truck behind you who is trying to see if the ridiculous dB capacity of his system is enough to actually bring the building down, Babel-style. The windows of our car didn't rattle - they buzzed like they were about disintegrate at a molecular level. We experienced actual pain. I told her I was going to ask him to turn it down, and she reached over to tell me no, but right as she tried, another bass note hit and shook her arm loose from the socket, rendering it temporarily useless. I got out of the car and turned back to face the enormous chrome grill of a full-sized (oversized, if that's possible) of his truck. We made eye contact. I mouthed "can you turn that down" and held my hand in front of my face while pointing toward the floor. Nothing but a blank look from him. I walked to the window of his truck and he rolled it down (the window, not the truck). "Can you turn that down?" "What?" "I said, CAN YOU TURN THAT DOWN?"

And just like that, he wanted to fight me. Get out of his face. Get out of his truck. Don't tell HIM what to do with HIS shit. Turn my shit up if I can't hear it.

And he got out of the truck. I said, "I'm not trying to listen to anything, but your bass is hurting our ears. I'm just asking you to turn it down."

I went back to the car and told her I was just going to walk back to my office.

I had to go past him again to get to the stairs. He was still out of his truck, more cars lined up behind him because he wouldn't move. His bass track still ruining everyone's morning. He said, "I turned it down. You happy, motherfucker?" I asked him his name, to which he responded by asking my name. I said, "I'm Ashby, and I work here." He said, "I don't fucking care. I'm PFC Anchor, and you can't tell me what to do, motherfucker."

I walked up the stairs, and heard him yell something about come back and stand up like a man. I thought of so much to say. My pulse had to be 200bpm. He could have, and surely would have, beaten my ass. He might have done worse, but I didn't care. All I wanted to do was fight him. It took more effort than I thought I could exert to ignore him. Halfway back to my office, and I was still think of reasons to turn around and go find him.

PFC Anchor. Or was it Eckard. PFC. Fuck, and he had a handicapped hangtag on his rearview (though he looked plenty limber and ready to go to me).

How terrible of a person am I if I find out this guy I'm pissed at is a wounded veteran, just back from Iraq, who went off on me because he's having a terrible day...maybe because he found out that all the money he was promised for school isn't here for him? Or that he's just irritated because he's spending another day with a bunch of Greek-letter jackasses who are four years younger than him and two years closer to graduation?

I should give him the benefit of the doubt, but all I keep thinking is, "fucking jarheads."
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1/17/2006 12:13 PM Anonymous JZA

That's JERICHO-style, Freedom Hater.

It's called the Bible. Read it sometime, you ignorant Jew. You ignorant, freedom-hating Jew.

Wow, did anybody else just smell ozone?    



1/17/2006 1:05 PM Blogger ashby

Jericho...wait...I've heard of that one.

/this blog is written by a moe-ron.    



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