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when i was coming home from work
yesterday
i came across a bum who had a question for
me
the question was, "hey buddy! wanna smoke a
joint!"
the only appropriate thing to do, of
course,
was to except his offer whole heartedly. i
nodded.
he then whipped out a loosely rolled marijuana
cigarette
and we proceeded to smoke it
after a few puffs i began to feel rude
here i am mooching off of this old man
and i hadn't even the manners to introduce
myself
"my name is david," i lied easily
(people say i look like a david)
"Ron," he lied back
i saw the insincerity in his eyes
Ron wouldn't let me talk
he'd carry on with a story until
he ran out of words
than we'd sit in silence, staring out at the
street
he'd begin again on a totally new
subject
and when i tried to interject
he'd cut me off and continue on
so i just sat back and listened
his stories ran together with no end in sight,
he,
talked on and on about how he got his
shoes,
nice ones, from a drunken indian for a fifty cent
piece.
they were very nice shoes, quality hiking
boots
he told me he spoke chinese
i didn't believe him, but he proved it..., i
guess
i don't speak chinese so it could have been
jibberish
but it sounded convincing, i laughed
he told me he spent 17 years in taiwan as a
kid
i didn't beleive him there either but,
he unrolled his sleeping bag
and took out a leather bound bible,
most likely his most important
possesion,
and produced for me two pictures
of a small boy, riding atop a water
buffalo.
"that was my friend flicka," he said, staring back
out towards the street.
"she lived for twenty-two years."
there was a held back sob beneath his
voice.
i believed him then, and felt sorry for the crazy
old man.
forty-three years old,
a wild puff of hair atop his head
to match the wild beard protruding from his
chin
to match the wild eyes blazing out from wild puffs
of eyebrows
set in the top center of his leather sun beaten
face.
Ron told me how much the city had changed so
much
in the 20 short years since he'd first come
here
"why, people used to sit out in front of the bars
drinking and having a good time."
"people weren't afraid to smoke out in the
open,
with the fuzz driving up and down the
ave."
i smiled when phrases like "the fuzz" would come
out of his chapped lips.
when i got up to leave
he asked me for a quarter to make a phone
call.
he didn't beg, or inject any care into his
voice,
but his eyes pleaded with me.
"here," i said handing him a five
he looked down to what i had placed in his
hand...
clenched his fist...
and threw it in my face.
"thanks for nothing," he said to me backing
away.
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- [EMAIL PROTECTED]
aim at
mrbigfoo,
distracted with his shoes untied. |
