The man with the stretched out navy blue hooded sweatshirt, holes in the seams where the pocket is stitched in the front on the belly, that pocket where you can put both hands into and they can meet, that singular, giant pocket that isn't good for holding much because it always ends up falling out anyways, the man sitting on the concrete and I hope he has something to cushion himself not only from the hardness of the ground but the stinging coldness of it, that fucking below zero biting temperature that isn't so much cold anymore as it is some sort of demonic possessed evil version of it, I assume he wants somebody to share some of their pocket change with him though I don't think he knows it right now and when I sit down next to him and nudge him in his gut, part of the reason his sweatshirt is stretched out and ripped, an absurdly obscene gut for a starving man stinking like death and begging for change in his sleep, he doesn't budge even a little and just sits there leaning against himself, his back up against the bricked wall, still holding his faded Dunkin Donuts plastic travel coffee mug with a few pennies and nickels collected at the bottom.
"I've only got but a couple dollars on me, myself," I tell him, his moustache caked with dribbles of frozen snot dripped from his nose as a result of the cold and then "Did a strong wind destroy your home?" as I lean in closer to make sure he's breathing.
People rush by, people dressed in dry cleaned overcoats and the fur of animals fashioned into nifty looking designs to keep them warm, clutching briefcases with number coded locks on them and purses filled with pepper spray. I grab the coffee mug from the grip of my slumbering friend and he snorts a little, drops his arm at his side. "I'll give this right back," I promise him.
A man with white earbuds poking into his earholes in a shiny two shades of green Nike tracksuit and white turtle neck, clutching a halfway stuffed gym bag looking freshly showered with his greased, slicked back hair probably on his way back to the office after a power workout on his lunch break and a quick protein shake for good measure trots our way and I rise, that frostbite feeling stinging my ass, coffee mug in my fist stretched out in front of me.
"Hello, hello, hello!" I sing shout, staring directly into his eyes as much as I can through the Ray Bans he wears, though the sun is nowhere to be found, one of those gray winter days where everything is highlighted by the bright nothingness of the white clouds blocking the sun, seeming a little sadder and he hesitates just a little bit, caught off guard and in a split microsecond debates with himself whether to keep walking, faster than before, or to stop and acknowledge me. I make the decision for him and jump right in his pathway, both arms now stretched out beside me as if i'm about to embrace him.
"Emaweni webaba," I tell the man with a smile on my face. "Silale maweni!" and he tries to walk around me, quickly looking down at the ground as if avoiding eye contact with me will make him feel like i'm not really real.
I give him a "Webaba silale maweni," and I can feel the fear in him wrestling with his anger, the game show fluorescent signs flashing "FIGHT" or "FLIGHT" in his head and with a quick move to the right, I shift quickly, blocking him again and decide, not so impulsively, to give this one a pass.
"Webaba silale maweni," I tell him, a little calmer this time, a sort of peace offering, and do that thing where I step backward and sweep my hand out in front of him as if to say "Go ahead," and I can tell he wonders if this is just a trick, not moving right away and looking at me for the first time then taking one step forward, carefully, and another, and then a quick succession of rapid trots as he scampers away half wanting to turn around to make sure i'm not going to tackle him from behind but I don't and I smile just because I could have and he knows it.
I walk back over to my fat passed out friend and stand beside him for a second leaning against the wall. "I don't think he's much of a Paul Simon fan," I tell him and wait another minute just watching the people walk by on their way back to work, back home, to the bank, to get a six dollar coffee. "Many dead, tonight it could be you!" I holler at a passing car and walking towards it, a green Jaguar with tinted windows. "A strong wind destroy our home. A STRONG WIND!" and standing on the curb I throw the coffee mug into the street, the change scattering everywhere and it hits a passing bus bouncing back in my direction landing a few feet behind me.
A woman having witnessed all of this strolls my way rapidly switching between looking at me and looking at the ground, looking at me and looking at the ground, hoping to get a glimpse at me before I lock eyes with her and when I finally do she'll stare right back at the ground and pretend like she was never even looking at me in the first place, praying that the brief moment of eye contact we shared won't translate in my obviously mentally ill head as some invitation to address her, some non-verbal sign that she actually wants to be my friend but regardless of whatever the fuck she's doing I have decided hours and days and weeks and months ago that she would be the one and when I calm down and slink back to my spot standing against the wall beside my friend and slump down to the ground not looking anywhere near her, I know she feels relieved walking past me and quickly puts the whole situation out of her head.
"Many dead," I say to my friend, still snoring and snorting and slumbering away, pulling his arm up onto his belly and wrapping his fingers around the handle of the now empty coffee mug and leaning it against his chest.
Standing myself back up again and facing the direction she went, the cars on the street and the buildings around me catch fire and burn, the trees growing out of the small squares of dirt surrounded by asphalt and concrete grow arms, hands, fingers and wings, uproot themselves and grab hold of the mailboxes bolted to the ground, the street lights and fire hydrants and traffic lights and billboards and fly away into the clouds and before my friend, my fat, homeless, drunken, filthy friend gets taken by the oak tree on the corner of 48th and 7th and carried off into oblivion I tell him "Tonight," running quickly after her, yelling behind me to make sure he hears me "it could be you!"
"I've only got but a couple dollars on me, myself," I tell him, his moustache caked with dribbles of frozen snot dripped from his nose as a result of the cold and then "Did a strong wind destroy your home?" as I lean in closer to make sure he's breathing.
People rush by, people dressed in dry cleaned overcoats and the fur of animals fashioned into nifty looking designs to keep them warm, clutching briefcases with number coded locks on them and purses filled with pepper spray. I grab the coffee mug from the grip of my slumbering friend and he snorts a little, drops his arm at his side. "I'll give this right back," I promise him.
A man with white earbuds poking into his earholes in a shiny two shades of green Nike tracksuit and white turtle neck, clutching a halfway stuffed gym bag looking freshly showered with his greased, slicked back hair probably on his way back to the office after a power workout on his lunch break and a quick protein shake for good measure trots our way and I rise, that frostbite feeling stinging my ass, coffee mug in my fist stretched out in front of me.
"Hello, hello, hello!" I sing shout, staring directly into his eyes as much as I can through the Ray Bans he wears, though the sun is nowhere to be found, one of those gray winter days where everything is highlighted by the bright nothingness of the white clouds blocking the sun, seeming a little sadder and he hesitates just a little bit, caught off guard and in a split microsecond debates with himself whether to keep walking, faster than before, or to stop and acknowledge me. I make the decision for him and jump right in his pathway, both arms now stretched out beside me as if i'm about to embrace him.
"Emaweni webaba," I tell the man with a smile on my face. "Silale maweni!" and he tries to walk around me, quickly looking down at the ground as if avoiding eye contact with me will make him feel like i'm not really real.
I give him a "Webaba silale maweni," and I can feel the fear in him wrestling with his anger, the game show fluorescent signs flashing "FIGHT" or "FLIGHT" in his head and with a quick move to the right, I shift quickly, blocking him again and decide, not so impulsively, to give this one a pass.
"Webaba silale maweni," I tell him, a little calmer this time, a sort of peace offering, and do that thing where I step backward and sweep my hand out in front of him as if to say "Go ahead," and I can tell he wonders if this is just a trick, not moving right away and looking at me for the first time then taking one step forward, carefully, and another, and then a quick succession of rapid trots as he scampers away half wanting to turn around to make sure i'm not going to tackle him from behind but I don't and I smile just because I could have and he knows it.
I walk back over to my fat passed out friend and stand beside him for a second leaning against the wall. "I don't think he's much of a Paul Simon fan," I tell him and wait another minute just watching the people walk by on their way back to work, back home, to the bank, to get a six dollar coffee. "Many dead, tonight it could be you!" I holler at a passing car and walking towards it, a green Jaguar with tinted windows. "A strong wind destroy our home. A STRONG WIND!" and standing on the curb I throw the coffee mug into the street, the change scattering everywhere and it hits a passing bus bouncing back in my direction landing a few feet behind me.
A woman having witnessed all of this strolls my way rapidly switching between looking at me and looking at the ground, looking at me and looking at the ground, hoping to get a glimpse at me before I lock eyes with her and when I finally do she'll stare right back at the ground and pretend like she was never even looking at me in the first place, praying that the brief moment of eye contact we shared won't translate in my obviously mentally ill head as some invitation to address her, some non-verbal sign that she actually wants to be my friend but regardless of whatever the fuck she's doing I have decided hours and days and weeks and months ago that she would be the one and when I calm down and slink back to my spot standing against the wall beside my friend and slump down to the ground not looking anywhere near her, I know she feels relieved walking past me and quickly puts the whole situation out of her head.
"Many dead," I say to my friend, still snoring and snorting and slumbering away, pulling his arm up onto his belly and wrapping his fingers around the handle of the now empty coffee mug and leaning it against his chest.
Standing myself back up again and facing the direction she went, the cars on the street and the buildings around me catch fire and burn, the trees growing out of the small squares of dirt surrounded by asphalt and concrete grow arms, hands, fingers and wings, uproot themselves and grab hold of the mailboxes bolted to the ground, the street lights and fire hydrants and traffic lights and billboards and fly away into the clouds and before my friend, my fat, homeless, drunken, filthy friend gets taken by the oak tree on the corner of 48th and 7th and carried off into oblivion I tell him "Tonight," running quickly after her, yelling behind me to make sure he hears me "it could be you!"
