I think I’d like my first post to be about a weirdo I still refer to as Southside Stupid. If only he knew about the hours of entertainment he’s provided me in passing along his story.
Southside Stupid is from the southside of Indianapolis. I know this, and shouldn’t, because he talked so proudly about his area’s school system (funny, they’re open to any kid who lives nearby), his neighborhood (full of above-ground pools and stray dogs), his disdain for anything northside, and the new mall (always a source of pride on the southside).
He sat across from me and played a radio all day every day at a volume level that was like a low-frequency hum. All day. Every day. Talk radio. I couldn’t understand a word. Just the hum. And a few moments of what I thought was laughter or music or commercials, but I couldn’t be sure. It really was just sporadic scratching or gurgling or braking.
I asked him if he could turn it down. Over. And. Over. I asked him if he might be willing to try headphones. Over. And. Over. He finally said he wasn’t going to spend the money on headphones. I asked him I could bring him a pair of headphones. He stared at me. I’m not sure he understood my offer.
I knew I’d been beaten when, in our last conversation – more accurately called my pleading session – he said, “Offices are full of people and noises. We just have to learn to live with them.” I’m not sure when a radio became office equipment, but whatever. I could do no more. (Besides at this time, a friend of his who sat next to him decided to teach me a lesson and started playing a CD at full volume. Little did he know that this was fine with me. It was the hum, but I couldn’t make anyone understand that to save my life.)
And then, came the moment that changed my attitude towards him. Ol’ Southside arrived one morning with four band-aids on his face. Full-size band-aids. One across his forehead. One on his chin. One across his nose. One vertically down his cheek. When asked by co-workers, the story went something like this:
“I had to get up in the middle of the night. I was walking down the hall to the bathroom and I tripped over an extension cord and went flying down the hall across the carpet. I have rug burn all over my face.”
I’m not kidding.
Let’s count the errors, shall we?
1. Extension cord across the hall?
2. Flying? How fast would one have to be going down the hall to fly across the carpet?
3. A face landing? Why wouldn’t one at least turn one’s head?
4. Band-aids? Seriously?
After re-telling the story a few times to anyone who would listen, he must have forgotten that he was injured. Or maybe he was healed, because after lunch, he had taken the band-aids off. From my safe distance, I didn’t see any marks on him at all.
Ah, Southside. You mystery, you. Thanks for the memories!!
