Beneath General Sherman's Horse

Anger.

At Anger Management the councilors have claimed that we possess three-second trigger defenses before we pull the trigger. I have always begged to differ. My anger trigger is 'now'. This afternoon I was on a pleasant walk through lower Central Park from my hospital. Exiting from the zoo I strolled to 60th Street listening to Pharaoh Sanders. Bloodwork proved I was healthy and I was wearing a black double-breasted Burberry suit with a leather jacket under it. The weather was warmish after the previous week of sub-zero conditions.

Two young men kicked a football before General Sherman's golden equestrian statue. Duke's front right hoof raised signified Sherman's having sustained multiple wounds and having three horses shot from under him at the Civil War battle of Shiloh. The football players weren't doing anything really wrong other than obstructing my path. Annoyed I veered close to the white boy. Within a foot. The ball hit my ass and I spun on the heels of my Italian loafers. The young man and his black friend backed up fast. THe white boy had a squirrel tail haircut like most of the boys of his generation.

It's called 'the Alpaca' popularized by the Kansas City

"Motherfucker."

His black friend dragged him out my range. About three feet. At 72 I still have some run left in my legs. "You called me motherfucker." White Boy said, as if no one had ever cursed him. Milleniels have a different youth than those young with an unlimited lexicon of profanity.

"Yes, I meant it too."

"We weren't doing anything wrong." Nobody these days, young an dold, recognized ill manners. I was brought up with Emily Post's ETIQUETTE drilled into adolescents at all times.

"Please" and "thank you," holding doors, chewing with our mouths closed, dressing appropriately, shaking hands—these are all manners."

Most Americans dress in gym clothing.

"You weren't doing anything right either. I wanted to walk where I was going. I didn't want to step a foot out of my way. You were oblivious to my space. So I thought to myself, "Fuck you, little motherfucker."

"Can you stop calling me motherfucker and just walk away."

"Now you're telling me what to do, mother fucker."

The soccer ball was at his feet. Three feet away. I so wanted to kick it into the 5th Avenue traffic. I remembered my work at the Anger Managment group meetings. Conflict and resolution. Violence wasn't an option in these days of cellphones. People always record fights. "This is a statue of General Sherman, who brought the Wrath of the North onto the slave-holding Deep South. At the Battle of Shiloh he was wounded three times and his horse Duke also was shot, which is why his hoof is raised for his rider's wounds." "So why you call me a motherfucker?" "Because you kicked a ball in my ass. NOt the same as getting shot three times, but what the fuck. One time I threw a football in the Louvre. You know what that is?"

"Throwing a football?"

"Yeah."

We punched fists and I walked away, as they resumed their play.

And yes, I had caught a thrown football in the Louvre 1983."

Go long, and yes I am a hypocrtite, but there was no one there. Not making excuses, just telling the truth.