Broke-Ass Encounters Public Enemy Number 19: The Middle-Aged, Angry Hipster

Babydolls, Broke-Ass knows how long it has been since she was checked in with you–and it breaks her timorous little heart to have to weigh in now with an invective. But she has just undergone exposure to such a loathsome situation that she is compelled to deposit it here. Who else understands better than you?

So, it was getting on in the evening the other day, and Broke-Ass and Baby Poodle were on their way home from the city, where Baby Poodle rocks it as a gymnast–who ranks 15th in the whole fucking country, thank her very much!–at the gym for which Great Dad and sundry grandparents shell out the green for the tremendous experience she has there, when they turned onto Columbia Street in Red Hook, uptown. It was a dark and drizzly night, and Broke-Ass, in her 1998 used Toyota Sienna, was suddenly edged over by a giant city bus, and scraped against a Honda, causing her side-view mirror to flap back with a thunderous clap. Broke-Ass, of course, immediately pulled over to a safe spot, consoled the concerned Baby Poodle, was just stepping outside of the broke-back wagon she calls her car to check damage to it and the other car, when who should appear but a short, angry, aging hipster prick, his two dogs, and his iPhone.

And he began yelling expletives at the top of his stout little lungs. Expletives such as: “What are you going to fucking do–just leave the scene of the crime?!!”; “All you fucking yuppies just use this back way because you think it’s a short cut–you have no respect for anyone who LIVES here!”; “Fucking asshole yuppie!”; and so on. Initially, Broke-Ass explained, with composure, that she had her child in the car, would he kindly contain his seething monologue, was stopping to check her car before going to check the other car and to leave a note. The short, angry, middle-aged hipster accused her of intending to do no such thing, and that he was going to write down her license plate, which he began to do on his $400 iPhone, and announcing as he did, that Broke-Ass was driving a Volkswagon.

A Volkswagon. And this is where Broke-Ass utterly lost her cool.

“This, motherfucker, is a 14-year-old used Toyota minivan! Only one door works on it, and I can’t afford to replace the muffler! And WE LIVE HERE! We live around the corner from the PROJECTS! Where the fuck do you live? Carroll Gardens West? How DARE you accuse me of malfeasance, with your fucking iPhone, beagle, and bloodhound, and expensive, intentionally ruined-looking jacket? I support a family of five ALONE! And not very successfully!”

Did Public Enemy Number 19 stalk off in shame? More or less. But he continued to rave as he skulked down the street, manically pecking at his device that exploits workers in China, and mumbling about what a shitty mother Broke-Ass was. Broke-Ass had to concede that he had a point here, since she had just utterly lost her cool in front of Baby Poodle.

At this point, Broke-Ass peeked into the car and apologized to Baby Poodle, who said: “That guy didn’t even give us a chance to leave a note for the car! He was so mean!” Broke-Ass agreed that this was true, but that she was ashamed of herself for having lapsed into scatology. Baby Poodle was unfazed. “Let’s go and find that guy and yell at him, Mom!” Good Lord, what has become of us?

At any rate, Broke-Ass and Baby Poodle left a polite, apologetic, and thorough note for the unfazed Honda, and made their way home to the Rancho. There, the rest of the family–Big Daddy, Little Mousie, and Two Lumps of Sugar–commiserated with them. We all ate popcorn and felt better.

But the incident happily forced Broke-Ass to reflect on the incalculable number of times she herself has made unfounded presumptions about people. The beautifully turned-out supermom with perfect children who, as it turned out, was suffering in poverty and extreme emotional duress at the hand of her vicious, relentless ex-husband; the snotty, contemptuous, rich dad who, as it turned out, was in the process of getting laid off; a couple who was the picture of outrageously well-educated taste who, as it turned out, included the man part of the couple’s addiction to the most bizarre forms of pornography.

As Little Mousie pointed out: “Maybe that guy has a really hard life, Mommy–we don’t know.” Little Mousie was, as she often is, exactly right. And it made Broke-Ass wish she had been a little kinder. But it also made Broke-Ass remember that there is little better than being proven wrong, when the net yield is compassion.

Sorry, angry, middle-aged hipster. Shake on it.


About brokeassgrouch

I'm goddamned broke and grouchy. I live in the middle of the damned ghetto and raise chickens for eggs; grow all my own vegetables and fruit; bake the bread and make the cleaning products. Why? Because I fucking have to, that's why! That's what you do when you're fucking poor! You have to make the shit yourself, dumb-ass! Broke-Ass Grouch is sick of all you Bennington and RISD trustafarians yapping about your "urban farming co-ops" and your "carbon conscious lifestyle" and your "green choices" in the Times Styles section and every alternapress periodical that you can pick up for free in every eye-wateringly expensive, edgy bakery or green-market. Maybe when you have a trust fund, you can make "choices" or have a "lifestyle" or "decide" how to "spend" your "money." Excuse me, but Mama is just trying to feed her kids over here, you little shits. And stop spraying your art-school graffiti on the fence of the vacant lot across the street from my house. I know who you are, and I'm telling my friend Keith (who lives in the projects) that it was you who painted that cartoon of the African mask. So what can I tell you? I don't fucking know. I know a lot about being broke, sure as Bob's your fucking uncle. I know about how useless an Ivy League degree is when you're flat-ass broke. I know how to unclog a drain with baking soda and vinegar, and I know how to make my own CHEESE, for fuck's sake. You tell me.
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One Response to Broke-Ass Encounters Public Enemy Number 19: The Middle-Aged, Angry Hipster

  1. emily xyz says:

    “But the incident happily forced Broke-Ass to reflect on the incalculable number of times she herself has made unfounded presumptions about people. ” — You rock, and you are an inspiration.

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