Wednesday, August 30, 2006
...Just Throw Money!
The urge to drop by Rich's for a few smokes was just too much. I tried to fight it. Honest! But all the signs gave the go ahead...almost insisted.
Walking in, I noticed some things never change. There is the cigar store clown in front of me and the wooden "skin" to the left. Porn is still in front of the door to the humidor which is still locked for my safety.
Mr. Salesman opened the door for me and I grab three bundled prayers with my own hands, an act both illegal and dangerous according to the state.
I light up and head North and East on foot and journey across the Burnside Bridge. I walk while my cigar runs. I get to the worlds tiniest canyon and make my offerings while watching two lines of geese head South along the westide wall of our river, the life blood of our mother. I make my usual three offerings and pray.
When finished, I pack it up and enjoy the beauty of the river when suddenly I'm hit under my right breast next to my bag and I know someone driving by threw something at me. I see a beat up car that looks like an ancient Corolla. A small group of what I assume to be young men were riding inside.
My anger wanted me to rage, but what's the use. I wish their karma on them, then try to take it back. I turn and continue my journey.
I realize that what they probably threw was money. I pause, shake my bag, and a nickel falls to the sidewalk so far above our river. I carefully pick it up knowing that sometimes assholes like to heat up coins so the homeless will burn themselves. Then the story comes to me, and I could be wrong...
Young men proving allegations of bravery. Showing off for their friends and hoping for acceptance. Young men with little direction attempting to prove bravery by random acts of minor drive-by cruelty. They assumed I was homeless. They attack those who are perceived as weaker using acts of minor violence that are perceived as brave and humorous, but are nothing but chickenshit and cruel. You know, kind of like a soldier.
Bravery. Bravery? Not brave enough to talk to me.
I imagined things like catching up to the car and yanking the little shit out by his hair, but really, why give my energy to something I can do nothing about?
I smile at the nickel and thumb flip it into our river in a prayer to clean up that energy. I remember the prayers I made of money dropping on me from out of the sky and think: "I didn't mean like that." I laugh at the absurdity of it all.
I put so little thought into this I almost forgot to write this story.
Walking in, I noticed some things never change. There is the cigar store clown in front of me and the wooden "skin" to the left. Porn is still in front of the door to the humidor which is still locked for my safety.
Mr. Salesman opened the door for me and I grab three bundled prayers with my own hands, an act both illegal and dangerous according to the state.
I light up and head North and East on foot and journey across the Burnside Bridge. I walk while my cigar runs. I get to the worlds tiniest canyon and make my offerings while watching two lines of geese head South along the westide wall of our river, the life blood of our mother. I make my usual three offerings and pray.
When finished, I pack it up and enjoy the beauty of the river when suddenly I'm hit under my right breast next to my bag and I know someone driving by threw something at me. I see a beat up car that looks like an ancient Corolla. A small group of what I assume to be young men were riding inside.
My anger wanted me to rage, but what's the use. I wish their karma on them, then try to take it back. I turn and continue my journey.
I realize that what they probably threw was money. I pause, shake my bag, and a nickel falls to the sidewalk so far above our river. I carefully pick it up knowing that sometimes assholes like to heat up coins so the homeless will burn themselves. Then the story comes to me, and I could be wrong...
Young men proving allegations of bravery. Showing off for their friends and hoping for acceptance. Young men with little direction attempting to prove bravery by random acts of minor drive-by cruelty. They assumed I was homeless. They attack those who are perceived as weaker using acts of minor violence that are perceived as brave and humorous, but are nothing but chickenshit and cruel. You know, kind of like a soldier.
Bravery. Bravery? Not brave enough to talk to me.
I imagined things like catching up to the car and yanking the little shit out by his hair, but really, why give my energy to something I can do nothing about?
I smile at the nickel and thumb flip it into our river in a prayer to clean up that energy. I remember the prayers I made of money dropping on me from out of the sky and think: "I didn't mean like that." I laugh at the absurdity of it all.
I put so little thought into this I almost forgot to write this story.
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