Dirk Gadsden

An elongated crunching sound is an apt analogy for the noise of scooter wheels moving across concrete; it's something essentially primal, like a—excuse the cliche—babbling brook or the rumble of hooves. Of course some things have an irrational hatred of kick scooters or those that choose to utilize such scooters as an efficient means of rapid urban transportation system.

One of these “haters” happens to be the curb between the sidewalk and the road at the intersection of Spring Street and Rutledge Avenue. I believe it was psychologically traumatized while being constructed and has not received nanny-state-sanctioned Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder counseling. As a result of this government carelessness, the curb is consumed with hatred towards humans, and yesterday morning found the opportunity to exact a small degree of revenge against our race by rising from its roots to grasp the back wheel of my trusty scooter—affectionately known as Drew Barrymore II ¹—causing my body, in keeping with Newton’s Second Law, momentum, to continue moving beyond the now-stationary scooter. After a brief moment airborne, I returned to the perniciously-rough surface of a very pebbly sidewalk, which proceeded to lacerate the majority of the surface area of my left cheek, bring a degree of damage upon my tender palms that would violate the Geneva Convention’s section regarding torture (unfortunately, it’s hard to bring a tribunal to bear upon pavement and stupidity), and mangle the flesh upon my knees. To add annoyance to injury, my quite fashionable perfectly-fitting knock-off aviator sunglasses leapt from my face to the concrete, then were semi-crushed between the concrete and my face once it caught up. They still work after some bodging, but no longer have that perfect fit. Also the lenses are quite scratched, but that’s really of no consequence in the grander scheme of the cosmos.

Now, dear curb, what do you have to say for yourself. You could have had your pick of drug dealers, bums, or annoying college students. But no, you decided to pick upon the gainfully employed, generally upright and supportive young citizen who pays his taxes, donates to charity, and supports public radio. You could have been the father of eugenics, slowly cleaning the streets up one miscreant at a time with your nuanced pavement-sidewalk barrier. You could have been a social leader, bringing down the stern rap on the wrist, then offering the uplifting hand ². A pariah of social progress, bringing society up to a higher standard of living, a new America that walked to the straight and narrow sidewalk to a brighter future.

Of course that would be too easy, I forgot that you were a fan of Kafka and dreamed of a fusion of noir atmosphere and lives troubled by constant physical and mental pain. You are the gatekeeper to the haven ³ of catharsis, and a cruel gatekeeper at that. According to your holy book: “One must be exactly 6 inches ⁴ to achieve the rapture of right living”; and of course none of us mortals can live up to your standards. So in our quest to find inner peace, our pilgrimage across the curb—you—will always be fraught with peril. Why is that, you damned construct of concrete and gravel? Are you some perverted Buddhist, obsessed with suffering, gleefully striking down those seeking a life void of the pain of living, cackling as you watch the soft flesh of the living tear before your rough surface, blood welling, curses gushing forth, teeth gritted in pain and frustration. Are you a pagan spirit, lord of the unachievable, the impassable mountain range? Were you born in hellfire, or just on the side of a city street? And is it your evil spirit that brings your lifeless substrate to malice-filled animation, or just my shitty luck? These are, I believe, appropriate questions to fall asleep upon, so if you would excuse me, I’m going to take some super-strength ibuprofen and retreat into my subconscious.