Little girl pal #1, (she eyes me in sort of a squinty look) “You look different.”
Me, “Oh yeah?”
Little girl pal #1, “Did you get a haircut?”
Me, “No . . . I didn’t get “a” haircut, I got a lot of hairs cut.”
Little girl pal #1, “Hhhmmn.”
Me, “Did I get too much cut off?”
Little girl pal #1, “Yeah . . . I can see through to your head.”

Enter little girl pal #2 to the conversation.

Little girl pal #2, (big eyes all sad) “My cat died.”
Me, “Oh wow, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Little girl pal #2, “I might get a puppy.”
Little girl pal #1, (not to be outdone) “My cat and Grandma and Grandpa died too . . .”
Me, “Wow, I’m really sorry to hear that.”
Little girl pal #1, “My cat was a boy.”
Little girl pal #2, (excited) “Wow, my cat was a boy too.”
Little girl pal #2, “That is SO amazing. That is SO amazing.“
Other little pals, (all screaming) “The busssssss!”

Conversation over.

Just about every morning I go to Einstein Bros Bagels to get a bagel and the elixir of the Gods commonly known as Diet Coke. I then stroll into Starbucks next door, sit down, eat and read.

Also just about every day I pass 1, sometimes 4 people asking me for money. I try to discern whether these people really need my help or are just attempting to get money for another purpose. I have no way of being sure. Admittedly I use a flawed system of simply looking at said person, euphemistically called “hobos” by my young daughters.

Again, this is a flawed method, but one of the hobos has a cell phone, thus she don’t rate in my mind. The others wear different clothes every day, are super clean and have shoes, good decent shoes. I know, I know, describing people that way is lazy and uninformed. I’m describing the regulars to contrast with the guy I call “The Einstein Man.” I call him that because he has wild grey hair reminiscent of Albert.

I see The Einstein Man every once in a while. He is completely and utterly filthy. He has no shoes, only rags tied around his feet. He talks to himself. He never asks for anything. The few times I’ve see him he’s invariably digging through trash cans looking for food. Man. That does rate in my book.

So, a few weeks ago I buy him a bagel, take it outside to where he was laying down and give it to him. He said, “Thanks.” I felt pretty decent.

Fast forward to this morning when it all came unraveled. I see him outside, so I buy a bagel and take it outside and set it on the table next to him. He looks at it sideways and says, “No Thanks.”, I said are you sure? He said “Yes.” Here is where I should have listened to him instead of thinking I knew what was best for him: I left the bag on the table and turned to walk away.

I was thinking that maybe if I left it there, he’d take it. He didn’t. He moved with surprising speed, picked it up with his left hand and angrily threw it onto the sidewalk a few steps down from where we were. He said something but I couldn’t make it out. I turned to go back to Einstein, embarrassed and a little mad, a little sad.

I’m at the elixir dispenser when I hear someone knocking on the window. I turn and see The Einstein Man giving me the finger and saying fun stuff like, “Fuck You, Fuck You” Now here’s my second chance to use my brain and again I failed, failed miserably. I started yelling back at him, giving him the finger. So, if you’re a person standing in line at Einstein and didn’t see all that went before it, ALL you see is me yelling at a homeless guy. Nice. Even if you did see the entire scene it doesn’t excuse my actions.

When I go outside he’s still sitting there and says to me, “Someone might hit you with a pipe.” Finally, I made the right move and said nothing. I sat down with some friends. He moved on and was standing near the Metro smoking a cigarette when last seen.

The whole episode was entirely my fault and I really feel bad for aggravating this guy. I was just trying to help.

The daily episode kept grinding on me for two reasons: 1.) My kids and I play out front a lot and our softball/frisbee/toy often lands there. I know the owner picks up the “solids”, but he ain’t cleaning up like a toxic waste worker so my guess is that there is plenty of residue. 2.) Let your damn dog out in your own yard in the morning, let him drop his load there, then walk him. I know, I know, dogs can summon up a whiz or shit on command but isn’t that better than fouling your neighbors lawn? (Hhhmmm . . . maybe he values his lawn more than I, I hadn’t considered that before.) So after the umpteenth time I went out front and “asked” him to not let his dog use my front yard as his personal shit box. Well, it came out a little coarse, cuz the neighbor quickly retorted “I pick it up”. I said I knew that, but that the location of his dog’s daily stool drop is where my kids and I play. I haven’t seen him since.

This all leads up to the trashcan. I started to notice that after my curbside trash can was emptied, I was getting a prize. I’d go to take the trash cans back up to my house and notice the familiar knotted plastic bag placed lovingly inside. Someone was dropping off their dogs feces, in perfectly knotted newspaper plastic. I don’t believe it was the aforementioned neighbor because he preferred a certain color newspaper plastic and this was different. (Well, I’m pretty sure.) At any rate, I was forced to stop this because: 1.) It ain’t my dog shit. 2.) I was not fond of holding said knotted treasures in my trash can for a week when the temps got over 90 degrees. I’m funny like that.

There was only one thing to do, make a sign. Got me some stencils and spray paint from Strosniders and set to work. Sign complete, wife embarrassed and so far no more dog shit. Crazy man.