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Faux Outrage

Literally the most important blog in the universe since 2010.

I woke up on Saturday morning (which was unsurprising but good) and learned that it was about seventy degrees outside in the heart of DC (which was great) in the middle of November (which is weird), less than a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving (which is delicious).

Not wanting to pass up one final opportunity to get sun poisoning, I donned my trusty New York Mets Lenny Dykstra #4 tee-shirt (thanks to Stephen V.) and headed to Kalorama Park.

My plan for the afternoon was simple: bask in the sunshine, finish the two-hundred page book I’ve been reading for two moths, go to town on an anjou pear, and secretly hope that puppies of all shapes and sizes (but especially those with disproportionally large heads) meander all day in my direction.

On the way to the park (which, for the record, more closely resembled a construction site), I stopped at a local used bookstore, Idle Time Books, because that’s just the kind of guy that I am.

Actually, I hadn’t necessarily planned on it, but they have one of those “$1 BOOKS” carts constantly stationed outside the store, luring me with promises of cheap entertainment.  The Cart never ceases to pique my interest, and incidentally never ceases to disappoint me each time in new and exciting ways.  After thirty seconds, I being to recognize that I am eye-browsing a collection of works arranged in preparation for a trip to the 1400’s to convince Gutenberg to destroy his precious printing press prototype.

The Cart is letting me down again.

No big deal.

There is an softcover arcing in my back pocket, pulling mightily at the machined threads that contain it, making every effort to expand the size of the space it has been unapologetically thrust.  There is a just-washed pear in my left hand, and for some reason, a commanding baritone roar in the distance.

Someone is yelling.

Someone is yelling something.

Someone is yelling something at someone.

Someone is yelling something at someone for some reason.

And then I hear it.  At least I think I hear it.

“Are you a Mets fan?”

And then I know hear it.

“HEY! ARE YOU A METS FAN?!”

Really?  Someone is yelling about a Mets fan? Is who a Mets fan?  Who cares if someone is a Mets fan?

And then I look down at my Lenny Dykstra jersey.

Wait, am I a Mets fan?

I look up.

His head is poked out the window of his car.  A squad car.  There is a District of Columbia police officer staring at me, expecting eyes wide open.

“Hey!” he calls, badge reflecting the sun.  “Are you a Mets fan?”

Baffled, I nod my head and gleefully call back, “Yeah!”

As an added bonus, I make sure to give the officer an idiotic thumbs-up gesture with my non-pear hand.  And although this probably turns out to be the kindest hand gesture he receives all day, it’s also the kind of thing that only an inherently awkward person would think to do in a situation like this.

I wait for his answer, for camaraderie.

I wait for him to smile and bellow, “LET’S GO METS!”

I wait for commiseration.

I want for him to frown and say, “Maybe next year, ya know?”

I wait for anything.

I wait.

He looks at me, grinning.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

And then — zoom!

Like the smile on my face, he is gone.

with his head poked out the window of his squad car
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