Hard rain and soft packs
20/03/08 00:33
Sitting
on a bench by the Atlanta Underground this evening -
smoking a cigarette, going over the events of the day
in my head - I enjoyed the silent company of an
elderly hobo. He just sat there, his rolled up
sleeping mat safely beside him, and stared at a dove
staring back, just as silent as him. No big wonder, I
guess, since they were both made out of bronze. But
still it gave me some comfort, sitting there by the
side of a kinsman of the road.
However, my moment of Zen was soon to be shattered. A strung-out local youth with a nasty-looking sore below his right eye approached me for a cigarette, and decided to strike up a conversation. A soliloquy of pseudo-Shakespearian obscurity, that is. It lasted for ten minutes straight, and all I ever gathered from it were the three central phrases that kept coming back at me in a rhythmic, almost mesmerizing, way - "girlfriend", "up there", "it's so good to meet people", "girlfriend", "up there", "it's so good to meet people", "girlfriend", "up there", "it's so good to meet people", etc.
Eventually I finished my cigarette, got up, and just sort of trailed off, his persensical chorus drowned by the onset of a tropical rainstorm. Half a block later I was soaked through. Ankle-deep in a major puddle at the corner of Martin Luther King and Peachtree, "Strange Fruit" playing in my head, a shrewd businessman of the street waved an umbrella at me from the other side of the crossing. I fumbled for a coin, well aware that I was trying to paddle the Titanic into safety. I pulled out a crumbled piece of paper that turned out to be my cigarettes. So much for hard boxes.
Anyway, smoking policies considered, I mostly keep my little cancerous sticks of instant badness in order to get in touch with strangers - and my umbrella salesman was no exception. He carefully rolled up three cigarettes in a small piece of cloth which he had somehow managed to keep dry (no, seven folded umbrellas don't make an unfolded ditto!). He pressed my hands, and told me that - God willing - the clouds would part to let the sun dry my bones before I got home. Well, whatever home means, it certainly doesn't mean the Super 8 Downtown Motel in Atlanta, Georgia. I know for sure, because this is where my clothes are dripping water into the tub right this moment.
Personally, I have recovered. I can't say as much for my cigarettes, though. Hopefully, they will be all dry and ready to strike me up some chance encounters tomorrow. If not, I guess I'll just have to go buy myself an umbrella. Flood warnings are all over the news, and they just declared a state of emergency for downtown Atlanta. God knows when we'll all be safe home and dry again.
However, my moment of Zen was soon to be shattered. A strung-out local youth with a nasty-looking sore below his right eye approached me for a cigarette, and decided to strike up a conversation. A soliloquy of pseudo-Shakespearian obscurity, that is. It lasted for ten minutes straight, and all I ever gathered from it were the three central phrases that kept coming back at me in a rhythmic, almost mesmerizing, way - "girlfriend", "up there", "it's so good to meet people", "girlfriend", "up there", "it's so good to meet people", "girlfriend", "up there", "it's so good to meet people", etc.
Eventually I finished my cigarette, got up, and just sort of trailed off, his persensical chorus drowned by the onset of a tropical rainstorm. Half a block later I was soaked through. Ankle-deep in a major puddle at the corner of Martin Luther King and Peachtree, "Strange Fruit" playing in my head, a shrewd businessman of the street waved an umbrella at me from the other side of the crossing. I fumbled for a coin, well aware that I was trying to paddle the Titanic into safety. I pulled out a crumbled piece of paper that turned out to be my cigarettes. So much for hard boxes.
Anyway, smoking policies considered, I mostly keep my little cancerous sticks of instant badness in order to get in touch with strangers - and my umbrella salesman was no exception. He carefully rolled up three cigarettes in a small piece of cloth which he had somehow managed to keep dry (no, seven folded umbrellas don't make an unfolded ditto!). He pressed my hands, and told me that - God willing - the clouds would part to let the sun dry my bones before I got home. Well, whatever home means, it certainly doesn't mean the Super 8 Downtown Motel in Atlanta, Georgia. I know for sure, because this is where my clothes are dripping water into the tub right this moment.
Personally, I have recovered. I can't say as much for my cigarettes, though. Hopefully, they will be all dry and ready to strike me up some chance encounters tomorrow. If not, I guess I'll just have to go buy myself an umbrella. Flood warnings are all over the news, and they just declared a state of emergency for downtown Atlanta. God knows when we'll all be safe home and dry again.
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