Good w/ the 'Hood: Joan of Arc meets Weenie

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I�ve already written about the park across the street a little bit�our neighborhood�s one green space. Beautiful, if you overlooked the glass-strewn dirt and the tagged building, and our bedroom windows did.

I�m walking home from somewhere. Two young girls are in the park, maybe ten or twelve, both of them just loitering, maybe looking for something to do. A man is peeing right in front of them. They�re trying to ignore this, drifting away.

�What the hell do you think you�re doing?� I stop oh, maybe twelve feet away. �This isn�t your bathroom. You�re right next to a middle school. There are children using this park.�

He shifts around, about my height, a little shorter, burly build, smooth face. All his clothes are brown. The overcoat�s dirty but not encrusted, if you know what I mean. He�s drunk, but not all the way.

�What are you going to do about it?� He�s mean with it.

Brain in fast mode: I�m going to plant my tennis shoe right where your zipper isn�t closed.

Brain in fast mode: (ah, not very much, actually . . .)

Mouth engages: �You shouldn�t do this. You either live near here, or you don�t. If you don�t, then this isn�t your park.�

�I live two blocks down the street,� he argues back.

�Then you should have walked two more blocks before going to the bathroom,� I tell him. �Don�t do this.�

He walks off, pissed. The two girls are long gone.

This kind of encounter, where I push for some standard and win a temporary battle, occurs over and over again. I never know if the war has made a difference to anyone but me. These encounters drive me to make fragile alliances over and over again. I never know if these have made a difference either.

I do know that some place in my spine is doing the thinking: Whatever words come out of my mouth seem to work at the time. I never know what I will say in advance.