They'll Always Be With Us. Accept It.

Remember when, as a kid, some really immature, petty person irked the living bejesus out of you? My mother would always tell me two things: (1) This is a part of life and (2) People eventually grow out of it.

OK. She was half right.

It is harder for me to deal with petty, immature adults than it is to listen to people whoop their kids in the grocery stores.

I am a petty people magnet. I have yet to figure out why. I attract other folk, too, but it is the petty folk that flock to my doorstep looking for advice they refuse to take, or misapply.

When will I learn? Trying to point out fairness and logic to a petty person is like trying to convince a Chicago alderman that getting caught doesn’t just happen to other people?

I’m always trying to turn my head around real quick. See if there is a sign on my back or something advertising me as a therapist for these people. And I mean “these people” the way Archie Bunker means it. “Ewwwwww….Edith…these people keep bringin’ me this drama they create themselves, Edith. Whaddaya gonna do?”

Case in point. One of these folk calls me, angry as all get out. She is angry with her live in boyfriend, whom everyone knows she has been using to keep her house out of foreclosure. I’ve met the guy. Decent enough sort, albeit stupid. He has to be. I have a rule: if I were going to get used, let it be by the finest, funniest woman humanly possible. I can’t get used by someone who looks like me in a dress and has the personality of a permanently singed cat.

Live In Dummy is mistakenly under the impression theirs is a union of love. Why shouldn’t he be? That’s what he’s been told. He hasn’t done his due diligence. Like listen to her regale anyone who will listen with tales of how she justifiably used and fleeced previous guys. Or balance his checkbook.

She’s mad. The house is now safe, she’s probably also soaked the poor dude for a new car down payment, and now she feels disrespected. Seems his sister wants to come to town for the weekend. Lady of the house isn’t going to be home, and takes issue with Dummy entertaining another woman in the house while she’s gone. Sista feels dis-re-spect-ed, and is going to demand hers. “I’m not wrong, am I? What do you think, J?”

There is another issue. He drives her car. He has a car, too, but it needs some work. A relative gave him the money to get it fixed, but Ms. Respect Me Fool made it clear to friends that she would have to keep that repair from happening. A working vehicle may remind this guy that he had better places to be, and she could not risk having him pull up stakes just yet.

Uh, yeah. This is the house where Dummy lives and pays for entirely. Oh, it’s not his house. I think it was in the “our” house category when it was in danger. Like Red’s bike in Dee-bo’s back yard. “It’s like it’s both of ours…” Oh, also, I know what you’re wondering. Yeah. Blood sister. Family. I know you were just checking. Anyway, surprisingly, she feels so disrespected that it may be time for Dummy to vacate her house. As soon as that last check clears.

This foolishness knows no gender limitations. Boy, do I wish it did. Just once, I’d like for the fellas to be able to sit back with smug looks and smirk. Ya’ll ruin it every time.

I was at orientation for a non-profit that primarily served mentally challenged adults. One of those touchy, feely agencies situated on Chicago’s North Side. The kind of place whose corporate culture is rooted in the belief that the world can be saved with love, patience and plenty of prescriptions. Social service agencies generally employ people who might be frowned upon anywhere outside of Greenwich Village. There were two Black guys in the orientation. Me and a guy I will refer to as Permasneer. You can guess at his facial expression after giving it some thought.

Permasneer was, of course, cynical about everything. Sadly, he was not silently cynical. Because he was there, I had someone who was willing to take the role of Black Male Spokesperson for the orientation class. That was great, because you all know I have a problem speaking up.

“Kids on medication need to drop that stuff. Even those born with drugs in their system need to get over it.” The folk who admitted being medicated for years stared on…

“I personally think subsidies for agencies that work with retards are unnecessary. Just lock them away somewhere. They aren’t doing anything productive, anyway.” Yes, that’s why we’re all here in orientation for E.F. Hutton…

“Therapy is a waste of time. All that white folk stuff. It doesn’t help anyone.” The Caucasian guest speaker who admitted years of therapy helped her get beyond her breakdown years before glared death.

When the trainer, who admitted to decades of severe mental illness, read from a story about a young man beset by depression who could not leave his bed for days, Permasneer jeered, “Why? His woman said he wasn’t no good? That’s stupid. Ain’t no such thing as depression.”

This being a clinical organization, of course Permasneer boasted an advanced degree and many years of experience.

He was the kind of guy that figures that because he went to Catholic school and lived in the suburbs, he has all of life’s answers. He is one of those silly Negroes that cannot understand mentality means more than money. I hid my schooling from him and the group. My town of residence was a given. So naturally, Permasneer thought he could confide in me because we had geography in common. He looked at me with the same harsh, defiant wistfulness Buchanan gave Caraway.

“I’m not going over well in orientation, huh?”

No foolin’. Who told you?

“I really need this job. What would you suggest I do?”

Stop insulting the trainer. I saw her notebook. The doodles she did while you were making fun of her were not pleasant. Plus, she is from HR, and I know your address is on file…

“Perhaps…you should share. Like the others are doing…” Everybody but me. You killed that, Buddy Boy.

The next day Permasneer showed up in his finest Coogi sweater and some eyeglasses, perhaps for effect. The group was discussing something rather benign when he cut in.

“You know, I don’t know…Sometimes, I am so angry…my son…he’s sixteen, and he is very sexually active…I mean, I think it’s cool, and all, but he won’t use protection. His momma thinks he is her best friend…I catch him at my house and hear the little girls complaining he won’t wear condoms…I try not to interrupt him when I come home and he’s…um, busy… I’m gonna buy him a car, but I don’t want to be a grandfather. He just won’t stop, even when it’s clear some of the girls are underage…I had a drink with him the other night and we talked about it, but he said it just feels too good without a condom…I guess this is my cry for help.”

He then gave the group this forlorn look and shot me a sideways, “That aiight?” glance.

On the way out the door that afternoon, he cornered me.

“You were right. I got them with that opening up. I think it’s stupid to share all my business, but it’s for the job. What do you think?”

I think my mother gave people too much credit.