Anger Management

A man dressed in casual business attire strides beneath the shading tree, past the café, along the sun dappled sidewalk; sport coat unbuttoned, white shirt opened at the collar, tie loosened, a well worn pack is strapped to his back. The sun arcs away from downtown toward the Pacific; his path traces the sun. Assume this man is on his way home from work. Not an outrageous assumption. His attitude, hard to read; bouncy, determined walk, eyes set to the horizon, presume sunlight the cause of his furrowed brow. Distracted, predisposed, spacey, possibly content, or not, basically he is undistinguished except; clutched in his left hand is a bouquet of red roses, his right hand grips a Louisville Slugger.

A man, the bat, and roses. A perfect one-panel cartoon.

Can we enjoy this image without complications; can we avoid fucking this up?

Impossible.

Humans need captions. Need to finish the story.

So give him a partner; a tallish, willowy blonde, red lacquered nails, silver bangles jingle from her wrist. Dress her in a dark business suit, white silk blouse, strappy fashionable heels, give her one small tattoo, a rose, on her left ankle. She and the man with the bat stride together in lock step, like two square jawed workers in a Soviet propaganda poster. No answers just a Hollywood cliché.

Do over. The partner is petite, athletic, brunette, tan, punctured by a diamond nose stud, her pony tail sways back and forth as she strolls along side him shod in weathered athletic shoes. She carries a used fielders glove by the strap. All the blanks are filled, happy now?

One more time. The man with a ball bat and roses walks with another tall, slim, man, possessed of incredibly white teeth, graying at the temples, European cut charcoal suit, tie tight to the throat, matching silk handkerchief folded neat in the breast pocket. The older man is brimming success and sly experience. Helloooo. Bat and flowers?

Fuck it. You are the guy walking down the street, if people sit in front of the café, they’re part of your story. Include them or not. You are the mystery, the ball bat and roses simply props. You’re in charge, reveal the story as seduction, like a fan dancer in a smoke filled room. Make them beg for it. Lets see some dollars on the stage.

Unfortunately, under today’s feathers is a plucked chicken – you’ve been laid off.

The Starling eyed security dude hovers, regarding your departure with scant mercy. Personal effects do not fill your backpack. Shoulder the pack, scan the room one last time. There resting in the corner behind the door is your ball-bat. The security guard arches his eyebrows then rears back as you snatch up the bat. Give him a sinister, knowing grin then slap the bat to your palm. It’s nice to see fear spark in his scavenger eyes. Of course you don’t go for him – the job sucked.

Your bat. You are terribly fond of this bat; got you laid after the company softball game. Hit a triple over the head of the petite brunette from Human Resources, her ponytail poking from that arch above the adjustment band. She has the graceful strong legs of a high-jumper. Shift stance, hit to right field, hit at her – challenge her with your bat. After sunset, after everyone has left the athletic fields you and this sleek brunette have frenzied sex in the front seat of her Honda, not easy considering you haven’t time to remove your game shorts. No matter, she is lithe and determined. In the heat of Anaconda contortions you regard her leather ball glove on the back seat; smooth, well oiled, pleasingly small.

Layoff day, discretion dictates against calling the cute right field brunette for a sympathetic quickie, though it crossed your mind. You’re kinda pissed that though she’s in HR she didn’t transmit a warning. Now imagine calling your wife and the angry clatter of silver bangles slamming the phone into its cradle.

Layoff’s sting radiates like a spider bite. Don’t call the wife, her psychic powers will anticipate your fall. She suspected the ball park tryst without evidence. You know how she gets, how she clocked you with the stoneware vase that time you came home, a little drunk, a little giddy; intercepted in your mad dash for the cleansing sanctuary of the shower. She smelled the cologne. That man’s cologne. It wasn’t that big a deal and only happened once but her fearsome attack left you stunned, bleeding, and slightly afraid.

Good thing. You can’t possibly be blamed for the layoff. Fucking economy. Though not an indiscretion, consequences are likely. Finally, standing before your apartment door, visualize your wife’s piss-off meter and contemplate where biting failure and lost income rank.

Roses are calculated as Harm Reduction. Be wary of the thorns. Stuff them stemwise under your arm as you fumble with the key and lock. Hold tight to the Hickory bat, name it Anger Management.