Dan in Real Life... Not the Movie. I Mean Real Life.

The other day, I left work at my usual time was strolling home. I was listening to my ipod and minding my own business and a noticed a rather loud and obnoxious man wandering the sidewalk. Not all that out of the ordinary, I thought nothing of it and continued on, deciding to stop walking and wait for the T. This loud guy started crossing the street towards me, deciding to cross against the light on Comm. Ave., and flashing the honking drivers that devil-finger sign thing. Suddenly, he was next to me, ranting and raving, and asking me if Shaw's was down the street (he had already passed it, but whatever.) I didn't hear him because of my ipod and because he was babbling like a fool, so I said, "Okay."

"Don't okay me you fucking asshole. I'll beat the shit outta ya," he responded.

I removed my headphones and apologized for not hearing him. oddly, I wasn't afraid of his threat, but was afraid that he might throw up all over me.

"What you listening to? Slayer?"

"Uh, no."

"C'mon, you mother fucker! I been listening to a lotta Slayer, lotta, what's that fuckin' band? Pantera! Yeah. At least listen to sumpthin' good. U2. Sumpthin'! Dude, I been at The Avenue, you know that bar, The Avenue? I been there drinking beer and Jaeger and..."

At this point, I really lost him, but it appeared to be a litany of the alcohol units he had that day. It was 4:00 on a Tuesday, by the way.

"You're not gettin' any fucking pussy tonight listening to that shit," he noted. In fact, I was listening to a mix someone had made for me, and it was some obscure Canadian band. Thankfully, it wasn't Sarah MacLachlan or something.

"Don't worry. I ain't gettin' any, either," he said, and I had to agree. "Look at this bitch! She ain't fucking me tonight!" he screamed at a passer-by. At this point, I was praying for the train to come.

"Lemme tell ya, dude. Stay white," he advised. "I'm not bein' racist, but stay white, y'know. Segregation was right. Everybody's difr'ent, y'know. What's yer name?"

"Matt."

"Matt! I love Matt!" he yelled, high-fiving me. "I'm Dan! Nice, Matt! I got a cuzzin named Matt. He's inside for the next 25 years for dealing crack, but he's aw'ight. He robbed a bank, too, but that's okay. He's a good mother fucker!"

Eventually, he asked where Babcock St. was, and I sent him on his way (although I think I mistakenly sent him down Pleasant St. I was afraid he'd eventually figure it out and come after me.) But, yeah, so Drunk Dan at 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon. Tuesdays at The Avenue. It really got me thinking what kind of life this guy must lead. Hey, I've been drunk before, and I've said and done some strange things, but this was off the page. Where was he going on Babcock St? (Tell me it wasn't home, because if he can afford a place on Babcock, then there's something wrong in the world.) And The Avenue? I have lived in Brighton for six months, and despite its proximity, I have yet to enter The Avenue and I hope never to do so. but maybe I'd run into my new friend Dan there, maybe get a few more pearls of wisdom.

Now, that is Dan in real life.

The Switch

So, after a recent event in New York where I got bounced out of a bar for the first time in my life (and I did nothing to necessitate such an act), I started thinking about things. "Maybe it's karma," I thought. "Maybe I should be a better person." my friend Brian said, "Who says you need to be a better person? What, if anything, are you doing wrong? That is the dumbest thing I think I've heard uttered by you in recent memory." My friend Brom said, "Then you wouldn't be Dursin."

Bullshit. Who says Dursin has to be an asshole? As I recall, I was the one who started all that. No one said, "Boy, what a dick you are." Except Keri. Can't I be Dursin and be happy and not angry all the time?

Well, "happy" is relative.

A good man, but a bad boy...

Often on my rounds at CGS, I find objects. I've found some pretty amazing things. Once I found a bra (Very lacey and tiny. Clearly not a supportive device.) and one time I found a cape. I even found a leopard print thong, in the Men's room!

Most of them I return to lost and found (well, the thong I left right there). I will admit to occasionally taking an umbrella or two. If the item remains in lost and found for a few months, and I think I can sell it on eBay, I may take it back. It's just one of the perks of the job, I guess.

Yesterday, I found a little black, leather-bound book that appeared to be a journal. I opened it to look for a name, which it had on the front inside cover, and in the space next to reward for finding this book, the owner had written, "my soul." Also, on the inside cover was tucked a folded up piece of paper. Because I am a bad boy, I opened it and saw that it was some kind of doctor's note saying that the person had an eating disorder. I flipped through to discover that it was her food journal.

Because I am much worse than you think, I scanned a few pages. I don't know why I did this, because if anyone read the crap that I write I'd be super-pissed. In fact, that happened to me once and it totally ruined my life, but curiosity got the better of me. This girl was writing about how much it bothered her to eat lunch, even though her therapist had instructed her to do so. Apparently, she couldn't get her mind around eating because she knew, even though she was probably only 18 years old (too young to really know anything), that she would get fat. She wrote a lot about that mental aspect of it, of getting her mind around the fact that she needed to eat to live. She talked about things her therapist said, things her mother said, punching her mother, taking supplements. Then I stopped reading. I had seen enough to give me something to think about. I put the book in lost and found and went home.

The more I thought about it, the less I understood how hard it is to eat. Maybe it's the diabetes and the eating thing that I have, but that's a very physical thing. I guess I never thought about the mental part of it before. I dated a girl who was bulimic once, and all I could think about was the classic George Costanza quote, "I'm paying for those meals!" This was the first time I had ever thought about it as a mental issue. Which is odd, because everything is a mental issue, really.

Because I'm trying to be a good man, when I went into work the next day, I went down to the main office (where the lost and found is located) and asked my friend Liz to look the girl up and contact her so she would be able to get her journal back. I didn't want to leave it up to fate that she would stop in and check lost and found. I don't know if it translates as a good deed, but it's the best I can do.

But I'll be collecting that soul anytime now.