Dead Raccoon and Angry Bob

Good morning.

It's 9:45 in the morning. The sun is shining here in Mimico. But my heart is troubled. Sigh.... Where shall I begin? Gosh, I feel like I have so much to say today. I wish I could type more quickly. I'm a one-finger man, myself. Middle finger. Right hand. Whatever. Who cares, Dale? Get to your point, please. What's on your mind today? What's "troubling your heart"?

OK. Well, I'm sure you're all curious about today's title. Dead Raccoon and Angry Bob. They could be related stories. But they're not. Let's start with the raccoon.

I exited the house this morning at 4:45 and spotted a raccoon lying on the street in front of my driveway. No wait. It was yesterday morning. Yeah. Anyway, I walked over to the little bugger to determine his condition and I was thinking "Gosh, I sure hope he's dead. I hope he's not suffering. What will I do if he's not dead? Will I have to end his misery? How? Rock? Brick? Stick? What if it wakes up and attacks me?"

You see how my mind works sometimes? It just latches on to a thought - any silly little thought - and runs completely berserk. I'm shaking my head here. So much worry. So much fret. And for what?

But it was drizzling rain. Dark. The nearby street light cast a pinkish hue on the road, empty and deserted now in the quiet of night. Somewhere, far away, thunder rolled. And lightning flashed weakly over the lake to the south.

I approached the animal. Cautiously. It was lying on its side with its tail pointed in my direction. I walked around to the front and gasped softly at the mess. There was no doubt now. This creature was clearly dead. The rain began to fall then in earnest.

What now, I thought. I couldn't just leave him there in the middle of the road. In the middle of the night. In the middle of a rain storm. I poked him with the toe of my work boot and rolled him onto his back. His legs were already becoming stiff and they stuck out from his belly in all four directions. The rain was falling in his eyes, which were still open. He (she?) looked so ignominious, lying there spread eagle like that.

Lightning crackled somewhere above me and briefly lit us like a macabre scene from an Alfred Hitchcock thriller. I stood there another few moments, staring down at this soaking, bloody, broken corpse and feeling both repulsion and fascination at the same time.

But I was getting wet. And I had to get to work. I rushed into the shed and grabbed a garbage bag and a pair of gloves. I hurried back into the street, collected the raccoon and deposited him into the trash bag. The bag I then stored in the shed. Until ... what? Garbage day? Garbage?

Is that all he is now, Ms Journal? Garbage? In an instant, a speeding car had taken this animal's Life and turned his body to trash. Think of it. There's some clear message there for those open to receive it.

In this minute, a Life. In that, garbage. How swift the transition!

The funeral will be on Friday; the hearse, a noisy truck. Two garbage men will be the only ones in attendance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Angry Bob works with me. He's the other engineer on my train. I see him every day. Bob sits beside me in the cab of the locomotive. I don't care much for Angry Bob. Here's a bit of background:

Bob's wife cast him out six months after Donna (her name was Donna) ended our marriage. So I had a bit of a head start on ol' AB when it came time to mourn and to recover. But Bob has not recovered. He is absolutely filled with rage at his ex-wife. Come to think of it, Angry Bob is filled with rage at nearly everyone. And everything.

He's often preachy and pedantic. He often offers bits of advice or pearls of wisdom that are not original, although he acts as though he's the first to think of it. Sometimes, he's quite ignorant of the facts and simply regurgitates words or concepts he's heard elsewhere. I've even heard him share things with me that I've told him myself months or even years earlier. He fancies himself as quite a soothsayer. I often feel as though he's talking down to me.

Am I that way? Do I do that too? Caution. "There's something about that guy I can't stand about myself."

Stay awake, Dale. Stay conscious. Witness your own behaviour.

Angry Bob is intelligent, eloquent (when he wants to be) and he tries very hard to be helpful. Bob has a good sense of humour. He dresses nicely. He is tall and handsome.

But AB's a selfish, bigoted, violent man. He doesn't like himself at all. He almost never refers to himself in a respectful way, often using self-deprecating humour which to me, is not the least bit amusing. Bob tries so hard to be perfect. Perfectly acceptable to others. Pure and righteous. He talks the talk, Ms J, but he doesn't walk the walk.

Despite a mighty effort, Bob falls far short of his goal. In the end, he's so transparent, that I feel uncomfortable around him. I've spent the past few weeks trying to understand why I feel so prickly when I'm with him. Now I know.

I don't engage Bob in conversation much anymore. I've tried gently to offer him alternate ways of looking at things, alternate ways of behaviour. I've hinted at the difference between response and reaction and suggested the former as wiser and more acceptable. But he doesn't hear me. Or if he does hear, he doesn't or can't understand. So I nod my head a lot nowadays and smile rather than attempt a verbal response.

Bob speaks in absolute terms. He often uses hyperbole to emphasize a point he's making. His feelings are nearly always expressed in the strongest way possible. Bob doesn't simply dislike things. He "HATES them with a passion." He rarely enjoys things. Instead, he "FUCKIN' LOVES" them. He doesn't get irked or annoyed or frustrated. He gets "FUCKIN' FURIOUS!"

When he refers to someone he doesn't like, he always uses the same description: "Fuckin' piece of shit." He doesn't describe the person as lazy, or selfish, or ignorant, or as possessing any negative attribute other than being a "fuckin' piece of shit." I guess, for Bob, that's an accurate characterization of anyone at all whom he "HATES with a passion" or who makes him "FUCKIN' FURIOUS!"

I've often thought Bob is a wonderful teacher for me, although he doesn't know it. It wasn't so long ago that I behaved much like him. Over the past few years, a tiny spark of knowledge in me has gradually grown brighter. I am able now to see that behaviour and manner of speaking as ugly and demeaning. In the end, only the speaker looks bad. It sounds horrible!

Last week, Bob overheard someone referring to him as "Angry Bob." He didn't like it.

"I'm not angry," he said. "Why do they call me Angry Bob? Fuckin' pieces of shit!!"

That was one of the times, Ms J, when I could only nod and smile.

I've recently discovered something else about this man. He pouts (on a good day), like a spoiled child, when things don't go his way. He dispenses advice and gets quite perturbed when it's not heeded.

This afternoon, he spotted me standing in the train yard as I waited for a train. Two full crews ride downtown every afternoon, where we pick up our own trains to operate for the rush hour crowds. Anyway, Bob saw me without a safety vest. We're supposed to wear safety vests now. You know, like the ones worn by traffic cops and crossing guards. I hate wearing a vest. Ever since an American took the helm here, we've been ordered to wear these ridiculous-looking vests. Bug-eyed safety glasses too.

The CEO of Canadian National Railway is American. Can you believe it? One of the most readily identifiable and well-know Canadian companies - indeed a Canadian icon - is now headed by an American. And the employees are VERY resentful of this fact. EXTREMELY unhappy, we are.

This clown doesn't care about employees or their families or even long-standing traditions or labour agreements. Profit is all that matters to E. Hunter Harrison. The man, and his new rules, are despised. I refuse to wear a vest. Or glasses. It's stupid. It's pointless. Clearly, I have a problem with authority. I know. But the vests are stupid. They're demeaning. They make us look like geriatric, school crossing guards. I don't wear it. I'm among the very few who doesn't. I'll get caught one day and disciplined. Maybe they'll take me out of service and make me stay home for a week without pay. (Seems a bit harsh, doesn't it? But these Yanks are really throwing their weight around up here. They're going to get us "pointed in the raht direction, bah Gawd." I don't care. I'm not wearing a stupid vest. Til I get caught.

It's stupid of me, I know. But I'm serious about this. I know I'll lose the fight.

So Bob says, "Where's yer vest?"

And I say, "In my bag here in my hand."

And Bob gets all preachy and starts telling me how I should be wearing a vest because if I get caught .... blah, blah, blah.

"Whatever, Bobby," I tell him. "Don't worry about me and my vest. You worry about your own vest. I'll be fine."

And so ... (I'm finally coming to the point. Thank you so much for your patience.)

...now he's not talking to me. Bob sits over on his side of the engine and pretty much ignores me. I've tried to make small talk, but he offers mono-syllabic answers. I'm disturbed by it. If it goes on much longer, I'm going to ask him point blank what his problem is. I'm going to ask him to stop behaving like a child and tell me what's bothering him. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but do I not have the right to reject his criticisms and refuse his advice?

I'll be returning to work in a few hours. I'll post again tonight when I get home.

This post is way too long to bother proofreading. If it sounds like a bunch of mindless drivel, so be it.

Whew! The End.

PS Sorry about the language earlier. I don't normally speak like that.