The Frog vs The Bum

I got The Frog because I thought he would add humor and a sense of fun to a situation that is most definitely not laughable and not really funny. Constructed out of a hard, yet amazingly light wood, The Frog is painted a bright lime green color with small black dots all over. He is what I hold onto, during my "bad days," when my gait is not so steady, when my limp becomes not only pimpish and funny, but painful and potentially dangerous.

Being a sometimes handicapped chick does have its moments. There have been funny times associated with my partnership with The Frog.


A few months ago my mom wasn't feeling too well, so I decided to pick her up some lunch from her favorite Thai food place. I went inside and got the two orders of Cashew Queen and proceeded to hobble back to my car, The Frog en tow. Just as I came around the corner of the building, I almost ran head on into a bum.

Dressed in rumpled, dirty, wrinkled clothing, this guy looked like a cross between a burnt out cowboy and a retired surfer with a penchant for the Mary Jane. Difficult to place with someone in circumstances such as his, he was probably somewhere between the ages of 45-70, having dark, tanned, leathery, creased skin (even in mid-winter, a testament to the insanity of California weather). A receding hairline gave way to about four greasy blonde hairs (a la Homer Simpson), one standing in each direction. To compliment this already stunning sexiness, our friendly neighborhood vagrant decided to pair his entire ensemble with a surprisingly thick blonde barbell mustache, complete with gel--or something else equally as sticky--to keep it in place.

I muttered an "excuse me" and tried to hobble away as fast as I could muster, but as I looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't following me, I noticed a particular glint in his eye. Not unlike those of a child on the days prior to Christmas, staring intensely at the already wrapped gifts, eyes trying to burn the colorful wrapping paper off, Blondie had a mischievous inquisitiveness reflecting in his blurry blue eyes. It was the look of sheer curiosity and interest in the origin of The Frog. Rarely, if ever, had I seen this exact gaze coming from an adult. Sure, interest and amusement, but never THAT LOOK. I wondered for a moment if he was on some sort of hallucinogenic; if he was I, could only imagine what The Frog must've looked like to him. Whether the look had its origins in LSD or inquiry, internally, my mind muttered a resigned, "Oh, shit."

Barbell Bum was quick on his feet, much faster than what I would have anticipated he would be and he briskly caught up to me, making me think that he was probably on the younger side of what I had originally estimated.

Or high on speed.

Still staring at The Frog, he looked up at me and asked, much too loudly, "Where'dja get the frog?" Smiling, he revealed a brown coated checkerboard, the leftover remnants of what were someday, long ago, called "teeth." He had tentacles of a blonde octopus hanging out of his nose, waving at me in the breeze and for a split moment, I was transfixed by the combination of nose hairs, barbell, and gummy grin.

The guy was totally in my holy hula-hoop, making me feel more and more uncomfortable by the second. I couldn't tell if his lack of understanding of personal space was aided by his pickled mind or by a leering sexual predatory way of being.

I quickly snapped out of it. "Um," is all I could muster, as I chastised myself for not getting my keys ready in the "offensive position" before I walked out of the restaurant. In self-defense class, girls are taught to have their keys ready--the biggest and sharpest one carefully, yet firmly placed sticking out in between the index and middle fingers. Should one be attacked, this strategically placed key can supposedly be used as a sharp brass knuckle. On any other day, this idea had always seemed kind of out there--far-fetched--to me, but at this moment it seemed like the holy grail of protection that I had somehow stupidly overlooked.

Of course, I never imagined I'd be accosted in Castro Valley, on the main street, in broad daylight. So as I fumbled for my keys, I made a plan of attack. I had something better than a lame ass key; I had The Frog.

"Did'ja kick somebody?" he sprayed at me, laughing at his own "joke" about my limp. God, I couldn't tell what was more annoying--the fact that not only was this guy totally creepy, but he also thought that he was a drunk, white Dave Chappelle! As he continued laughing, his mouth hung wide open, revealing angry gums and a breath obviously tainted with some sort of rank gasoline-like alcohol. Visualizing the big bottle of Listerine that sits on my bathroom counter, I wondered how someone who probably drinks a lot of varying types of liquor could have such rotting teeth and dragon breath.

Keeping one eye on him, I planned how I would scream and hit him repeatedly with my lime green cane and how hopefully, this combination would bring enough attention to us that someone would surely stop and help me.

I couldn't help but chuckle at the mere thought of me--all five foot nine inches of me, red hair flying in all directions like Medusa, green eyes squinting in mad concentration, face flushed fiery red with exertion; the bum keeled over, protecting his head and back of neck with his dirty hands, yelling out for help. I'd make him sorry he ever messed with me.

I imagined that I'd probably break the cane at some point and need to resort to hitting him repeatedly with the bag of Thai food. Hopefully, the flimsy plastic would break, spilling hot chicken and cashews all over his head. Perhaps this would be enough to send him running. That would teach him.

"Hey, lady! I just wanna-ed ta see if ya had some spare change!" the Bum looked at me inquisitively, his head cocked to one side. I thought about throwing the change in my pocket--HARD--at him; maybe a quarter would hit him, bouncing squarely off of one of his glossy bloodshot eyes…followed by a solid kick square in the nuts. Yes! I was sure this would be the best plan of action. My daydreaming thoughts slowly came back into focus, as my body tensed and I prepared to launch into my counter-attack

As my eyes focused again on the situation at hand, I realized that I was standing alone on the sidewalk. Looking up, I saw the bum hurriedly shuffle unsteadily away. As he turned the corner, he looked over his shoulder, his caterpillar eyebrows furrowed into the center of his face.

He looked worried that I might follow him.

I realized that all of my anxious daydreaming and vague answers had scared the guy away; in his eyes, I was some sort of Thai-eating, frog-toting, limping, red-headed weirdo! Hell, truthfully, I couldn't honestly say that he was completely off in his interpretation. All I knew was that in the end, I had gotten what I wanted--I had made him sorry he ever messed with me.