Fighting fatigue and a soar throat, I sat there, wasting the night away. Looking at the clock, it was 10:00 pm. Seemed like a normal night when a family walked in, a disgusting family, the lowest of the low class. The sorry-ass excuse for a father was more of a hoodlum kid than a man, proudly dressed head to toe like a Snoop Dogg enthusiast. The mother was a horribly obese seal of a woman not exactly making a fashion statement in wearing the brownest white t-shirt I’d ever seen—made so from the stains of probably two weeks of sucking down burritos.
The kids were a different story; the two and three-year-old-ish little ones had nice clothes (nice if you think dressing your toddlers up like Mr. T is a swell idea). This was really a pitiful sight. Ten to one says the youngsters weren’t even vaccinated! That wouldn’t have been the kids’ fault, of course, but their parents’, just as it was the parents’ fault that the little bitch and bastard were running around the building, almost tripping with every step they took, screaming bloody-fucking-murder in a building with poor acoustics! You could feel the vibrations in your ears in the form of a painful ringing.
Did the mother do anything about them? Hell no! She was totally oblivious to their ear-racking noise (apparently, that is possible, though I wouldn’t have believed it!); plus, the beached whale was too gravitationally challenged to run and catch them. But the young, sports-inclined father who honored TuPac like a biological brother wasn’t like his common law wife. She sat silently, but Mr. Rapper sat, and like an ill-mannered thug, loudly hollered at the kids from across the waiting area; “Get back here, damnit!” “Boy, I gonna pop you one if you don’t get yo ass back here!”
I let it pass. It was late, and no one was around but me. I can put up with a little crap, but the intense screaming continued—though I must admit, there were a few brief, silent intervals between bouts of shouting when I thought that maybe, just maybe, the problem would straiten itself out. Need I say I was wrong? I wanted to grab my ears, and then another element was added to the already rowdy atmosphere of across-the-tracks low-life-ness. Children, can you say “domestic dispute”?
I noticed the couple exchanging some words while the clamorous shouting and stomping of the two temperamental crack babies went on, like a marching parade of unsuccess. I was hearing a symphony of screams—we had hollering babies and now hollering adults! Yes, these two specimens of inner-city love seemed to completely forget that they were out in public. They tore into each other – his left index finger pointing and shaking in her face, the woman’s head pecking towards him like a fighting duck – but because the babies are screaming, they themselves become annoyed, so they take a break to slap them in a borderline abusive manner. Now the babies are crying even louder! Then, the parents’ short-lived attempt at parenting ended, and they went back to yelling at each other again. Honestly, I wanted to wait to see how heated the situation would become (this was my entertainment for the night), but when I became convinced that he was about to beat his celluloid-ian wife with his fists until she bled tacos through her eyes, I decided it was time to step in; ”Come on, people! Do you people not know that you are in public? Please, take it elsewhere!”
The irony was knee-slapping—now, all was silent! You could hear a pin drop! Even the kids shut up! They all turned and looked at me, then looked back at each other, and then exchanged a few quiet remarks. A minute or two later, they loaded up on the next bus and were gone. Ah, finally, they were someone else’s problem!
I went outside and looked down at the sidewalk. I couldn’t help but think on the experience. I saw a cockroach scurrying around on the sidewalk, foraging through an empty bag of Cheetos that didn’t quite make it in the can. I was moved to say, ”Little guy, you are much better than the pieces of human garbage that just left the building.”