Forcing Good Thoughts
by Charles C. Cole
I’d been vacuuming grit out of my car when I stopped to stretch my back. Cleanliness is a higher state of mind, though clearly inaccessible to some.
Events started when a new neighbor, yapping distractedly into her mobile phone, paused her leashed dog along my front yard, and said neighbor made no attempt to pick up after the defecating animal. City ordinance was clear on these matters.
I strongly suggested the offending individual clean up after their pet. One reactive comment led to another, exponentially, and then....
“I’ll call you right back,” she said. “I have to deal with something unexpected.” This community agitator called the police on me, for harassing them from the tactical advantage of my own property.
With a dismissive shake of my bald head and little satisfaction, I returned to vacuuming. A squad car appeared and a one-sided story was told. Officer Williams, who had years before chased a drunk teen-aged intruder from my elderly mother’s porch, pulled symbolically behind my Nissan Versa sans rotator beacons.
“Mr. Keason, how’s your mom?”
“No longer suffering, thank you.”
“Sorry for your loss, but perhaps there was some relief,” he offered.
“At least she didn’t live to see her quiet country neighborhood double in size.”
“I recall she was rather proud of you. How would your mother feel about you threatening a passerby?”
“Is that what she said? I never left this spot. Did she show you the fresh poop on the edge of my lawn?”
“She said she usually keeps baggies in her coat pocket.”
“She’s lying. This was not the first time, just the first time I reminded her of the law.”
Eventually Williams talked me off the narrow ledge I had climbed onto, but not before emphatically suggesting I consider counseling. Under pressure, I promised.
“For your mother.”
“For Mom.”
* * *
The therapist, found through an acquaintance at church, had more hair hanging down the sides of his head than found on the shoulders of a wild Himalayan yak. My fault: I’d asked for someone unconventional, as if tradition were constraining or stale.
Dr. Oddr Boslo recommended I sit in a camp chair on my porch and watch life go by, waving and smiling at random drivers and pedestrians. I’m supposed to think — and this is not a joke — “I love you, potential friend,” in a sincere and polite fashion, “because we are all one family going through similar challenges. I respect you for rising to face adversity head-on, for taking care of yourself and your loved ones as best as you can. Life lets us role model for each other. I am deeply grateful for this opportunity.”
And my cynical heart begins to grow like that of a certain green-faced animated Christmas character. My pretend affection organically takes root and becomes genuine admiration in spite of my resistance. Then, when these strangers smile back, I feel acknowledged and appreciated in turn. Good emotions snowball, reducing room in my nervous system for acrimony.
Or I can refuse help, lock my doors on society and “Arf” discontentedly through loose jowls at passing pedestrians.
* * *
I looked at a sad face in my bathroom mirror, grabbed a couple of magazines off my coffee table and sat on my deck. How long would this transformation take? What if people ignored me?
The first car to go by had a couple of adults in the front and two teen boys in the back. As they passed, slowing on the sharp corner beyond my driveway, pretty much in the middle of the road, I waved. In response, both boys made a familiar obscene hand gesture through the back window.
I smiled, because it took less energy than yelling and chasing after them. “I like you,” I whispered, “idiots.”
A delivery truck came from the opposite direction, loud music blaring. The driver took the turn without slowing, squealing as he did so. I tapped my index finger to the right corner of my forehead as if tipping my hat respectfully.
Two cyclists followed, having a loud conversation. “I love you!” I yelled as they went out of sight.
A mother and two brightly dressed and skipping preschoolers approached. I held my magazine up until they neared, not wanting to look like I was staring them away. “I love you. I really love you,” I mumbled under my breath.
“Hi, Mr. Keason!” cheered the voices. I couldn’t recall any of their names, but I knew they’d lived two houses up the hill, on the left, for about three years. I waved, then stood and waved some more. Everyone waved back.
“I am deeply grateful for this opportunity,” I muttered.
I continued this activity for an hour, greeting every vehicle, every bicycle, every stroller. But, when a certain familiar dogwalker-lady approached — I heard her before I saw her — I retreated indoors and watched from my laundry room window.
“We are all one family going through similar challenges. I respect you for rising to face adversity head-on,” I said, closing my eyes until I could no longer hear her voice. Then I returned to my post.
Before my foe circled back on her return trip, Officer Williams popped by. Coincidence? “I love you, you big lug,” I shouted in my head.
“How we doing?”
“Fine,” I said. “Someone call?”
“Nope. On my way home. Thought I’d take a shortcut.”
“Through my neighborhood?”
“Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“I passed our friend, picking up poop and putting it in a baggy. Gives me hope.”
The next two days, I repeated myself. Maybe it was just an act of self-induced hypnotic suggestion. Maybe I wanted to spite the Doubting Thomases. Maybe I wanted to guarantee my money’s worth for my ongoing counseling.
Life isn’t perfect, but breathing is a lot easier than it used to be.
“Fast forward,” as the kids say. Sunrise was a little brighter this morning. It’s going to be a scorcher, so I’m putting a bowl of water by my mailbox for wandering four-legged friends.
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Cole
