FUCKING RETARD
david erlewine
The man who may have called me a fucking retard watches football while lounging in his faux-leather chair. His wife appears to have gone to bed upstairs.
My hand hesitates before killing my Camry’s engine.
Even now, my third time stopping by, I don’t know whether I actually have an ax to grind.
I took his nod as an invite to board the train. Seconds later, he hissed “fucking retard." I figured wacko carrying a gun, don't turn around. Then I thought he might be referring to another passenger who tripped him from behind. Later that day at work, I decided he said “retards,” meaning the train operators running three, maybe four, minutes late that morning.
In 6th grade I pretended not to see Ronny Timmons beat the hell out of my brother Tim. Ronny works at the nearby Subway. He’d need 450 guesses to figure out our connection. This is what I am thinking about when I realize the man who may have called me a fucking retard is tapping on my window, ordering me to roll it down.
David Erlewine
daveerlewine@yahoo.com
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