For want of a horse

“Hooligan!” The old man, almost bent in half by age, yells at us as we pass his house. “Get off my lawn!”

His lawn is tuffs of persistent weeds pushing up through cracks in the sidewalk. He stands in front of an abused recliner that fills up most of his rusty, iron balcony. Hanging precariously over the second story railing, he shouts down at us in a hoarse bellow.

Zek tries to flip him off, but I hold his arm down.

“He’s harmless,” I apologize. “He’s been like that since I was a kid. Just ignore him.”

I slip my hand around the crook of Zek’s arm, and gently propel him further down the street.

“What the hell is a ‘hooligan’?” Zek looks back over his shoulder.

“It’s like saying, ‘punk’.” I try to use words I know Zek understands. This isn’t the first time I have “dumb down” to be with a man. Again, I wonder why I put myself in situations where I feel the need to self-censor.

“How do you even know that?” Zek acts hurt whenever he feels I am showing off my education.

“I watch ‘Downton Abbey’,” I lie. “It’s an old British word. They use it a lot on the show.”

Zek nods his head in approval of my answer. Television references are acceptable, book references aren’t.

The old man continues flinging insults at us. His tone evidence of his contempt, his words more injurious to me because of their meaning.

Letting go of Zek’s arm, I change directions, and head back towards the old man.

“Where are you going?” Zek finally realizes I’m not walking with him.

I point towards the old man.

“You are too erudite to fraternize with that Luddite!” He is still yelling.

“I need to see a man about a horse.” I leave Zek on the sidewalk wondering why I want a horse.