Life Lessons Learned From Carl the Retard

NOTE: This post is supposed to be tongue-in-cheek.  That being said, skip past this one if you are easily offended.

“Hi Carl.”  I say it the same way I say it every day.  Like I am almost bored with saying it and it’s just something that is done out of obligation.

But really, I just want some sort of response.

Carl is a retard.  Actually, I think Carl may be autistic.  Who knows, though.  Carl certainly doesn’t.  He is one of the mentally inept who are dropped of at the retard daycare center, The Kenmore Club, which is right down the street from my office.  Carl looks like he is in his 50s or 60s.  He wears oversized jeans, rolled up way above his ankles.  Usually he sports tight, button-up shirts, tucked into said jeans.  I am sure these are his only jeans.

I know “Carl” is Carl’s name because I once heard a social worker call him that.  Or maybe they just named him Carl like one names a dog.  If that were the case, they should have named Carl “Dopey.”  That’s a good retard name.  Whatever.  Irrelevant.

Every day, Carl roams Kenmore Avenue picking up an assortment of debris from the street, collecting them in his handy little trash bag.  A little creature, who I think is part snake, Carl tends to stick his tongue out periodically as he strolls around.  Of particular interest to Carl are cigarette butts. On an almost daily basis, at least on the weekdays, Carl scours the block, picking up every cigarette butt.  He is meticulous.  The front of my office building and the parking lot must be a gold mine for Carl.  Half of my office smokes and every tenant in the building smokes.  If it weren’t for Carl, the parking lot and sidewalk outside the building would probably be inches deep in cigarette butts.  But, thanks to Carl’s determination, this is not the case.

I often stand outside with my coworkers and watch Carl pick up the cigarette butts.  We watch, as if it were some sort of spectator sport, hoping to see Carl miss a carefully hidden cigarette butt.  He never does.  Carl may have the competency of a bowl of pudding, but he excels at cigarette butt retrieval.  If it were a featured game in The Special Olympics, that little guy would be a gold medalist.

One day, Carl walked by Brandon and me as were creating more butts for Carl.  “Hi Carl,” Brandon said politely.

“NYAAARP.”

That was it.  Carl replied, “NYAAARP.”  We waited for Carl to pass us and then began chuckling.  Hey, it’s not polite to laugh at the mentally challenged – in their face, at least.

Carl has yet to “NYAAARP” at us again.

A few weeks later, Brandon and I were standing in the office parking lot.  Carl was making his rounds.  “Hi Carl,” Brandon and I announced in sync.  No “NYAAARP.”  Oh well, tomorrow is another day.

Then something gross happened.  We saw Carl lick his fingers and proceed to try and clean up a giant piece of bird shit that had splattered on the pavement.  He didn’t get all of it off and licked his fingers again before resuming his clean-up.

Brandon and I stood there, mouths agape and eyes wide open.

It was horrible, and I think that’s when things changed.  I began to look at Carl with a lot more contempt.  I know.  That’s horrible.  I held contempt for a middle-aged retard who enjoys picking up garbage and eating bird shit.  Dear Satan, I would prefer a room with a view.

There’s an episode of How I Met Your Mother that deals with image shattering moments – moments that reflect how someone’s actions completely reverse how you see them.  In the show, each time this happens to a character there is a SHATTERING noise.  Well, the minute Carl gobbled up the bird feces, there was a SHATTERING in my mind.

Carl, you’ve changed, man.

And he had, Carl’s bread and butter are cigarette butts, but he also goes for the other garbage lying around.  And dog shit.  He picks up the dog shit across the street with his bare hands and tosses it into the plastic bag!

One day, I stepped outside and saw Carl leaning into Brandon’s car through the open window.

“Hey, get out of there.”

Carl got out, gave a little flick of his tongue and went about his business – probably onto the next heaping pile of shit.

It frustrated me.  Grrrr.  Yes, I felt like I had just been dissed by a retard.

I live in an apartment above my office, and my dog Rowdy likes to look out the window, keeping an eye out for wandering villains who don’t belong in the parking lot.

Rowdy hates Carl.  Rowdy barks at Carl.

Sometimes, when I take Rowdy across the street to take a dump (so that Carl has something to pick up later), Carl is out and about.  This is usually right after I wake up.  I am grumpy, and weak, and when Rowdy sees Carl, he starts tugging at the leash and barking.  Usually, this freaks Carl out, but he doesn’t walk away.  He just stands there with his bird-and-dog-shitty hands and looks at me as I try to keep Rowdy from yanking my arm out of my socket.

Dick.

Yes, when this happens, I think to myself, “Carl, you are dick.”  Satan, make that a room with a view and no gross retard neighbors.

I recently realized how misdirected my frustration is.  Carl’s a retard who doesn’t know the difference between animal shit and ice cream.  He likes to keep Kenmore Avenue clean, for which I am grateful.  I really should be more frustrated at the Kenmore Club staff for letting someone like that out of their cage.

You know what I really want, though.  I want Carl to “NYAAARP” at me again.  I want him to go back to being goofy and adorable, rather than gross and irritating.

Even if you don’t ever “NYAAARP” at me again, you shit-eating critter, I want to thank you Carl.  You have helped me realize I have an issue with directing frustration at people (and retards) who aren’t the true root of the problem.  And, I know you will never read this, because you can’t read.  So, I will make sure to smoke twice as much and toss those cigarette butts out on the ground for you.