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Down on Mainstreet
By Haywood Jablowme | February 9, 2008
The day was like any other I suppose. Nothing to distinguish it from any of the other meaningless days that fill my memory like some sort of sick B movie with excessive nudity. After spending a great deal of the day deciding if obtaining ice cream was worth the effort of getting dressed, gluttony reigned supreme.
I prepared myself to walk the gauntlet of homeless beggars and communal hippies that have taken over the sidewalks of this town. There’s not much to do to prepare for them except rid my pockets of change and grab my whoopin’ stick. So far I have never actually had to use the stick but who knows; today may be my lucky day.
Within minutes I was dressed and ready to face the world. With my whoopin’ stick in hand, I exited the security of my dilapidated apartment building. The outside was just as I had left it 6 days prior. The god damn birds were still singing that extremely annoying song and the sun had yet to incinerate everyone as I had hoped while I was entombed in my private little cave. I guess all dreams can’t come true. I am living proof of that.
As the fresh air hit my lungs it mixed with the various types of mold that I had been breathing from the combined forces of my unwashed dishes, my inadequately ventilated bathroom, and my unopened windows. The fresh air and the mold, in a battle between good and evil, fought it out on their microscopic battlefield. Within seconds the victor was clear and the mold was being expelled in the form of a bright green jiggling blob of mucus.
I trudged on.
Around the corner the city was bustling with the sights and sounds of people doing god knows what. I really didn’t care to acknowledge their presence but every so often an attractive young woman would force me to rethink that position. Like most college students, I have become an expert at walking in public while hiding an erection.
Within a few seconds I was approaching the first sidewalk commune. A group of 7 or 8 dirt bags sat in a circle heckling each passerby.
“Got a dollar?” one of them would say.
“Fucking fascist”, he would reply when people treated him like the human stain he was.
With my whoopin’ stick firmly in hand, I walked confidently into the danger zone.
“Got a dollar?” asked the same dirt bag.
“Several”, I said as I made no attempt to stop. “Thanks for your concern good citizen.”
“Fucking fascist”, said the dirt bag, obviously annoyed by my remark.
I contemplated stopping and defining the word fascism for him but I had much bigger business to attend to. My ice cream was not going to purchase itself.
Walking further down Main Street, I witnessed the usual bullshit that plagues this city as though it were stuck in some horrible time loop. Like that movie groundhog day. Remember that movie? You know, how everything just reset each day with the same people doing the exact same shit every day? Well, that’s what this town is like.
To the right of me is the excessively large black man selling his incense and oils. He seems like a nice enough man but I haven’t convinced myself well enough that I am not a racist to pull my wallet out in front of him. I’m working on it.
To my right is the “writer” sitting in front of the coffee shop. You can always tell who the writer is because he usually wears an out of style hat and usually possesses a pocket watch for some reason. They also seem to hang out at coffee shops and the cooler they are, the less technology they use. This guy has a large notebook and a pencil which means he’s really cool. And in my experience, the cooler they are, the worse their writing is. It’s one of gods little jokes, kind of like giving a pedophile a big penis.
The small street is alive with the sights, sounds and smells of a typical college town. There are barely legal females prancing about, destroying what is left of fat old men’s self esteem. There are old hippies smoking pot and discussing the finer points of communism (which are typically short conversations that usually end when it is realized that Marxism has NEVER actually manifested let alone proven to be a viable system of distribution). There are the gutter punks and jocks, the preps and the nerds; each group self righteously judging the other or pretending the others don’t exist while simultaneously preaching equality and tolerance. And of course, there is an overwhelmingly high amount of Asians.
As I drift along in my musing I am suddenly ripped from my day dream by an unknown invader.
“Got any change?” asked the voice.
“Yeah, I do”, I said just as I had before.
“Can I have it?” asked the voice who has now been identified as a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I need it.”
“For what?”
“None of your god damn is business is what.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you refuse to help your fellow man?”
Usually when things like this happen I move on. I feel it is a waste of time to share my brilliance with undeserving folks but for some reason I just couldn’t do that this time.
“On the contrary, I am helping you by not giving you money”, I said as I took my street talkin’ stance.
“How the hell did you ever come up with that brilliant notion?” asked the homeless man, obviously annoyed by my answer.
“Well”, I said as I looked him in the eyes. “If I were to give you some change then I would be sending the message that it’s o.k. to sit around all day and beg for money rather than work for it. Now, some people think that’s alright, but they are usually doing the same thing. I work hard for what little money I have so why the fuck should I feel obligated to give it to a man who refuses to work for it? Because Jesus says so? I’m pretty sure if Jesus were here he would not approve of you being a worthless piece of trash. Now, I have no problem giving you my change but you must earn it.”
The old man gave me a puzzled look as he digested my words.
“How?” he said.
“I don’t care”, I said as I reached into my pocket. “I have 87 cents here. Do something that’s worth 87 cents.”
The old man scratched his head.
“Fuck you”, said the old man.
“That’s not worth 87 cents”, I said.
The old man laughed.
“Fine. I’ll play your game. I’ll tell you a story.”
“O.K.”
“Which one would you rather hear; the one about me being molested as a child or the one where my family is brutally murdered by a business rival? Perhaps you would like to hear about my tour in Vietnam when I killed women and children for fun. You pick”, said the old man.
“The one about killing women and children sounds interesting”, I said.
The old man shook his head.
“You’re missing the point son. You’re making judgments about me based on yourself, an able bodied young man with a bright future. I am a decrepit old man with nothing but a dark past. How easy do you think it is to keep a job when every child I see reminds me of my dead children or one of the hundreds of children I killed for sport? How hard do you think I can work with one good arm? I’m lucky to have this other one over here. They were able to put it back together but it serves little practical purpose. So, before you go judging me, perhaps you should take other factors into account. Now kindly go fuck yourself you spoiled son of a bitch.”
With that the old man closed his eyes as to tell me the conversation was over. I stood there digesting the words that had just bombarded my ears like lightning bolts.
There was silence.
“Shit”, I said. “That was worth a whole god damn dollar man. I haven’t seen acting like that since Rain Man.”
The old man smiled.
“It was pretty good wasn’t it?” he said as he stroked his beard with pride.
“Damn near had me convinced,” I said as I reached for my wallet. “Here’s a buck, get a beer you lazy fucker.”
“Will do”, said the old man as he took the bill. “Have fun being a self righteous, spoiled son of a bitch.”
“You got it”, I said as I continued walking. “You got it.”
Its days like this that make me glad to be alive.
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One Response to “Down on Mainstreet”
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February 12th, 2008 at 3:34 am
Wow, the new site design looks great. It reminds me of a really clean looking newspaper.