To the old Chinese lady who sat on the fire hydrant - m4w

I'm new to the neighborhood. And I've recently taken up fire spinning, which compells me to practice swinging my unlit fire rigs in the alley just off of Pacific between Mason and Powell.

I had been running through my choreographed routine Sunday. This was going smoothly, despite dodging the several cars that elected to speed into the dead-end alley (???) and having to take off my shirt due to the hot weather coupled with my physical exertion. Various people, including neighbors, local workers, and tourists visiting Chinatown and North Beach would stop and sometimes watch me as they strolled up and down Pacific Avenue. They peered down the alley, smiling or staring curiously, sometimes taking pictures, and then continuing on their course. The jackhammer around the corner drowned out whatever they said... which is fine. This is all part of the flow and rhythm of urban living. I like it.

Then you came along.

You huffed and puffed like The Little Old Chinese Lady That Could. You were at least 60 years old, and possibly as old as 90 (as racist as this sounds, an east coast rural white boy like me has no concept of age when it comes to geriatric Asians). You crossed the opening to the alley, all hunched over in your arthritic misery. You hobbled to the other side, uphill, small bag in hand.

Like I said, it was a hot day. You were wearing a warm hat and at least 4 layers of clothing up top. Plaid overcoat, brown wool garment underneath, and two other non-matching cotton accessories beneath that. It must have been 120 degrees under all those clothes. I know that there's probably something to be understood in why you've done this to yourself, but apparently my moment of wisdom has yet to come.

You were moaning and grunting like a woman 1/3 your age getting it on. But this was not pleasure. This was pure agony. For both of us. I felt your pain. I wanted to take your coat. I wanted to carry your little bag of trinkets. Hell, I even wanted to carry all 90 pounds of you up the hill. At times like this, I never take my youth and health for granted. I wanted to help you.

But Oh God... what you did next over-ranneth my cup o' sympathtic compassion. It's a memory that, despite my greatest efforts to banish it from my mind, will stick with me like a bad tattoo.

You turned to face me upon noticing I was there. You stopped in front of the fire hydrant (yes, one of those ones with the big, fat nut thingy sticking out the top). You turned again and smiled. I smiled back. I was elated that you were deciding to take a break. I was about to offer you water to have with the free performance I was offering. Then you slowly started to squat. My smile, to any third-party observer (you were clearly oblivious to my growing plight), must have slowly turned to a horrified grimace. The next 1.4 seconds brought pure panick to my life... like the feeling of knowing two cars will collide, or knowing that the drink you just knocked across the table will soon drench your blind date.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" It was a silent scream that escaped from my lips. My jaw had dropped, preparing for my vocal chords to follow suit with their involuntary exertion... but they simply didn't have time. The moment was over.

Your ass owned that fire hydrant.

By this time, my chained fire rigs had gone off course and smacked me in the head a few times before coming to rest at my sides (later, I would find out that I had been bleeding from this). But it was nothing compared to the anguish I suddenly felt for you. I stood there, mouth half-open, staring incredulously (and impolitely... for this, I apologize) at you.

But you just sat there, hands (and small bag) in your lap, Kool-Aid grin, your face beckoning me to continue my performance. Never mind that you had a fire hydrant up your ass. You were just happy to be relaxed and entertained.

As I continued my performance, questions raced through my mind. How many people have encapsulated this fire hydrant with their recta prior? How much pure agony would compell a human being to do such a thing just because it's the only geriatrically ergonomic way to sit down? Would I take a fire hydrant up my own ass if it would guarantee the end of a Bush White house, the onset of unfettered stem-cell research, and an eventual cure for arthritis?

In a fucking heartbeat.

At one point, another crowd of people had stopped to watch... during which time you managed to extract the fire hydrant from your ass and slip away unnoticed. I hear you need lube for this kind of thing. All you had was synthetic old-lady pants fibers.

Sweet Jesus.

Ladies and gentlemen... there's no way that this old woman violated herself just so she could have the only seat in the house of a fantastic performance. I'm really not that good (yet). She did this because her pain is real.

She simply needed to sit down.