Almost got into a car accident on the way home from work. Rolling down 3rd Street, just outside the Watterson, a critter was crossing the street in front of me. A possum.

The car behind me had been aggressive since 4th and Winkler. Kept trying to pass on a two lane street. Shined their brights. That odd angry swerving people sometimes do, some kind of intimidation dance for automobiles that always amuses me. When I slowed down for the possum they laid on the horn. I responded with a finger. When I turned down Wampum and into the neighborhood, they followed me. Part of me wanted them to keep following me. They stayed behind me a block, went on straight when I turned again.

Sometimes even when the cruise is good, I end up cranky. It starts out as a role I play; the cranky boilerman. One of many faces, one of many masks. I try to find ways to be kind. But something about me just scares some people, especially a couple of the kids who work concessions. The cranky old boilerman. The fire troll.

And though I could work harder at being nicer, it would be disingenuous. I leave crumbs and clues to my humanity. Little jokes. Poetic quipts. But when people are determined to not like me, I lean into it. Hard.

The car behind me would have hit the possum without a thought. I like possums. They look mean but are mostly benign in the world. They’re like me. I look mean. But I’m mostly benign.

Since COVID and the Breonna Taylor Protests, what was left of the thin veneer of civility in this dirty old town has worn away. An underlying kindness has washed away like the mud left on the wharf after high water. Washed back into the river. We’re becoming a tourist destination. Polite, but not kind. Under the mud that washed away, there’s an aggression. It comes out in people’s driving.

These faces we wear. I read recently on someone’s Facebook status update: THE REAL YOU IS WHO YOU ARE IN PRIVATE. It’s a nice thought. Comforting. But really, there is no real anybody. We are composites of experience and biology. I’m many things to many people. They all think they know the real me.

There is no real me.

The me that stopped for a jaywalking possum is the same one that half-hoped the aggressive tailgater would follow me home.

Time on the river is washing away the layers of mud. Former composites. The cranky boilerman waiting on word from the blue heron, the watchman expecting messages from the wharf possum… faces I wear when needed.

But when I cross the street, I hope someone finds the civility to not run me over.