He was at the pig roast

I almost ran into him at a pig roast over Memorial Day weekend.  I was there taking pictures and he showed up in the crowd.  He seemed to be alone.  It was weird.  He’s been suing me for one thing or another for so long that I don’t expect to see him anywhere but at the courthouse with a couple of lawyers in tow.

I should have said “Hello.”  I wish I had said “Hello.”  I can’t yet.  Every time I envision talking to Jim, I can’t think of anything I might say.  What can I say to someone who has been uniformly rude and insulting to me since the day I was born?

I could have at least said “Hello.”  You can say that much to a dog.  Instead I’ve got him shoved over into the grey zone with panhandlers, pamphleteers, and Salvation Army bell ringers.  Just another stranger I don’t want to know.  Why not leave him there?  The world holds many unpleasant people — just ignore them and concentrate on the nice ones.  Why go out of my way to be nice to an asshole?

When Pop was in the hospital shortly before the end, the last thing he asked of me was to try to get along with Jim.  I must say, Jim sure doesn’t make it easy!  But truthfully, the legal crap hardly matters.  It’s the fifty or so years before that I’m having trouble with.  I’m sure he’s not going to make it any easier, and he’s got to be plenty steamed about how all his legal wrangling turned out.  And of course he has that whole “asshole” thing going.