Monday, March 7, 2016

MOMMA DIDN"T RAISE A PUSSY


The restaurant tables and booths are pretty much done.
 It's touch up's, tweaking, and install from here on out.
There are 2 aspects of this project that I'm very proud of.
 1. The fact that we took a very rustic concept and kept the design and the lines very clean.
 2. The fact that we took some of the shittiest wood on God's green earth and manipulated it into something fairly elegant.
 There is a silent 3rd factor, and that is the fact that we completed 6 restaurant booths and 3 custom tables in between doing 3 massive interior business build outs within 30 days.
 It's a situation where you would pat your team on the back and take everyone out for beers, but there is no team...it's just me and Zack...we're not really touchy-feely kinda guys, so back patting each other would be really weird and uncomfortable.
 The other day, I'm coming home from work and I get a text from Laura that simply says "call me".
A "call me" text never means anything good like "hurry home, these giant steaks are almost done", or "remember that 3 way we were talking about...well..."
No, A "call me" text means the fucking dog died, or the house burnt down.
 So I immediately pull over and call her.
Her car got hit in front of our house as her and my son were going around a car that was double parked.
 No biggie, I chalk it up to city living and ask if Max was ok. She say's "no he's freaking out because the guy that hit me, got out of his car and was screaming at me".
  I'm gonna make a long and involved story short...There were neighbors watching this asshole hit her car and proceed to "mother fuck" this woman, MY woman, with a child who is terrified and hysterical in the back seat, and no one did shit. In fact, one guy got in his car and sped off and another slithered back in his house.
 This was on our block, these pussies see us everyday, and the one fuck who got in his car and sped off is a guy who is always mr. neighborhood guy who's screaming "hey buddy, how's it going?", "hey Max, how's school?!", "blah-blah-fuckitty blah". I'm going to deal with that piece of human shit, but that's not what this is about.
 If you see something that you know is wrong, and you do nothing...you are subhuman.
This is a crazy world, with the deck stacked against all of us. We are all fighting some kind of battle, but god damn if we can stop being so fucking self absorbed for just one second, and just look out for each other.
 That's not reality, that's hope. Living in Chicago, hope can get you killed.
Hope the police show up? Hope a passerby will step up? Hope someone will save you?
 When the dust settled from the incident, I jumped on my computer and applied for a firearms owners ID for her.  Step 2 is she goes to conceal and carry classes and then gets her permit.
 She kinda fought me on it at first, but my rational was this..."you are a woman. You are the mother to my son. Your job is to protect this boy at all costs. In the world we live in, you are prey, you are a target, you are an easy kill. When you find yourself in a situation where you feel that you and our son are threatened, you will raise your firearm, you will give your assailant the chance to vacate, if they choose otherwise, you will empty that firearms contents into their skull, in which case we will get our son a therapist and you an attorney."
 That's what life has come to. That's the world our kids get to adapt to.
My mom didn't raise a pussy. I'll always help that old smelly lady put a case of bottled water in her shopping cart, or hold the door for whoever is walking in behind me, or let that guy who's holding a bottle of wine, a bouquet of flowers and a box of condoms jump in front of my loaded shopping cart at the check out line.
 I'll pull over and help push the car that died in the intersection, I'll step in when I see someone beating the shit out of their girlfriend, I'll speak up when I see a nerdy kid getting bullied.
 It doesn't make me special or a hero, it makes me human.

No comments:

Post a Comment