Soccer Dad and the People in your Neighborhood: True Tales of an SLC Cabbie
Issue 203 / November 2005 More from this Issue
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Episode #9: Fluffy (RIP)
By The Incredulous Gadianton
The term 'bipolar' is almost always attached to somebody in a derogatory sense and, I suppose, rightfully so. I mean, we manic depressives are an unpredictable lot rife with riotous mood swings, suicide attempts and the innate ability to bum everybody out. Depression is so familiar and comfortable to me after all these years of chemical imbalance that it many times feels like warmth. But as much as I love me some sadness, I think that the best part of being bipolar is the irrational and manic elation I experience when the happy chemicals take over.
So I was floating about in just such a manic episode on a Wednesday night smirking like a half-wit in cab #14. I was listening to Renee and Dawn (Local Imposters on KRCL 90.9 Wednesdays 8:30-10:30 PM) like I always do on Wednesday nights and it was like they knew just what to play to accentuate my tra-la-la contentment. Because I had just helped an elderly lady to her apartment with her groceries, I was feeling like I deserved a refreshing beverage. Cruising down 300 South towards the 900 East Maverick, the speakers began to belch out "Hungry Wolf" by X. Ahhhhh.
Although the night had descended and although I was embroiled in singing along to the radio, my eyes managed to lock onto a young girl running towards the road across a yard just ahead of me and to my right. I instinctively slammed on the brakes, but before I could come to a screaming stop, I felt and heard a thud/thump. I cringed. I froze. I shifted the car into park.
As I exited the vehicle, I saw that there was a barbeque of some sort going on in the aforementioned yard. The young girl whom I had seen running across said yard was now crying out in a language I didn't understand and was crouching over something a few paces back on the road. Various people were racing towards her. My brain and heart exploded with thoughts of death and my responsibility for it as I walked slowly towards it all.
I should mention that I don't have a stomach for gore. I like it in movies and actually think that it can be hilarious (Evil Dead 2 makes me laugh from start to finish), but when I've encountered it in real life, I haven't fared well. This was no exception. The long-haired black cat's head and shoulders were basically flattened to the asphalt as its hind quarters erratically kicked and danced. It was too dark to be sure, but I think that there were brains oozing around with the blood. I just stood there and felt the night swirl around me as my happy-happy brain chemicals went caput. It was all chaos as the people, who all happened to be of some sort of Oriental persuasion, carried on and cried and panicked. I noticed that I was incessantly whispering "I'm sorry" about the same time that I noticed I was being cussed out in a foreign language by three different women. Somebody picked up the little girl and carried her back towards the yard. A few seconds later, a man wearing cowboy boots and a righteous handlebar mustache stood over the still-flailing cat and stomped down on its head, effectively ending the remaining movements in its legs. It was compassionate and brutal and it silenced everybody for a second or three. As soon as the silence ended, though, ten people or more stood around me and commenced cussing me out. It was either Vietnamese or Laotian, I think. All I know is that I wanted to run away. Fast.
By The Incredulous Gadianton
The term 'bipolar' is almost always attached to somebody in a derogatory sense and, I suppose, rightfully so. I mean, we manic depressives are an unpredictable lot rife with riotous mood swings, suicide attempts and the innate ability to bum everybody out. Depression is so familiar and comfortable to me after all these years of chemical imbalance that it many times feels like warmth. But as much as I love me some sadness, I think that the best part of being bipolar is the irrational and manic elation I experience when the happy chemicals take over.
So I was floating about in just such a manic episode on a Wednesday night smirking like a half-wit in cab #14. I was listening to Renee and Dawn (Local Imposters on KRCL 90.9 Wednesdays 8:30-10:30 PM) like I always do on Wednesday nights and it was like they knew just what to play to accentuate my tra-la-la contentment. Because I had just helped an elderly lady to her apartment with her groceries, I was feeling like I deserved a refreshing beverage. Cruising down 300 South towards the 900 East Maverick, the speakers began to belch out "Hungry Wolf" by X. Ahhhhh. Although the night had descended and although I was embroiled in singing along to the radio, my eyes managed to lock onto a young girl running towards the road across a yard just ahead of me and to my right. I instinctively slammed on the brakes, but before I could come to a screaming stop, I felt and heard a thud/thump. I cringed. I froze. I shifted the car into park.
As I exited the vehicle, I saw that there was a barbeque of some sort going on in the aforementioned yard. The young girl whom I had seen running across said yard was now crying out in a language I didn't understand and was crouching over something a few paces back on the road. Various people were racing towards her. My brain and heart exploded with thoughts of death and my responsibility for it as I walked slowly towards it all.
I should mention that I don't have a stomach for gore. I like it in movies and actually think that it can be hilarious (Evil Dead 2 makes me laugh from start to finish), but when I've encountered it in real life, I haven't fared well. This was no exception. The long-haired black cat's head and shoulders were basically flattened to the asphalt as its hind quarters erratically kicked and danced. It was too dark to be sure, but I think that there were brains oozing around with the blood. I just stood there and felt the night swirl around me as my happy-happy brain chemicals went caput. It was all chaos as the people, who all happened to be of some sort of Oriental persuasion, carried on and cried and panicked. I noticed that I was incessantly whispering "I'm sorry" about the same time that I noticed I was being cussed out in a foreign language by three different women. Somebody picked up the little girl and carried her back towards the yard. A few seconds later, a man wearing cowboy boots and a righteous handlebar mustache stood over the still-flailing cat and stomped down on its head, effectively ending the remaining movements in its legs. It was compassionate and brutal and it silenced everybody for a second or three. As soon as the silence ended, though, ten people or more stood around me and commenced cussing me out. It was either Vietnamese or Laotian, I think. All I know is that I wanted to run away. Fast.
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