I approached a young man sitting slumped down in the dirt of the sidewalk. He had blonde hair but too much dirt for girls to notice, that brilliance of color. I asked him if he was hungry and that I had a lunch. I spoke without hearing his response. He looked at me, more peaceful than jovial, and said, Okay, and that was my signal to go in and make my play—I relapsed by the way. He made out his hands in a manner I could immediately recognize; often in the schoolyard, my friends, good chums we were, would let me see a key chain they had stumbled upon and took to liking, or a lanyard they recently completed. I handed it—let's not beat around the bush, we'll clarify that I simply handed the brown paper bag over to the fellow. Shame, really—women are often attracted to that sort of hair. After it was no longer in my hands, I walked away, comfortable with the purposefulness of our encounter—I didn't really need to dwell any further now, would I?
After I walked but a few feet I heard the sound of what could quite possibly be him tossing the bag in a contemptuous manner away from his feet. Before I turned around, I took a moment to appreciate noting he seemed more peaceful than jovial; he must have, then—and I take no pride in such astute awareness of my surroundings—he must have thrown the brown paper bag—interestingly, if you'll look up you'll find it's a variation of this bus web address...fascinating really—he tossed it with more disgust than contempt. Obviously, his mental state was in a quandary, battle-worn from conflicts with his primal instincts. He was troubled; I knew better from years of experience honing scorn and petulance at my grandmother's kitchen table. Of course, you're probably more familiar with differentiating from a dinner table. Our cultures sometimes vary little other than on some slight gesticulations; it could very well be a dinner table, and you can have your meal, or you can fill it up with laptops and screens and get on with it! All the cables, the panic and feverish anticipation.
Anyway, I walked back past him, hoping he wouldn't notice me, but did so in a path I imagined was the arc his meal flew. I could say I was not troubled—Oh, look to your right, he's at it again, this one, the persistence on that bugger—I respected his decision, but caught myself perplexed on what to do about the meal—and it's interesting really, how the brown paper bag has taken on its name... What do you think, should I have taken it back? You? Oh, you would have grabbed it, would you? By all accounts, that was his lunch now...and when I realized I was perplexed before slightly perplexed, or even musing for bloody sakes, I stepped away and spotted another tent. In the schoolyard, when someone had a ball, we'd get on with it and start a kickball match. Naturally, we had to bide by the bell—and that's an inverted nod to your Saved by the Bell. Clearly, I have made an allusion. Yes, I try to make my tours eventful here and now. We'd have to go in, and the team behind in points, as we like to refer to them, would bemoan the unfruitfulness of their tactical approach. But usually, we know, my boys, at least; for example, when it was Melville's turn to kick the ball, Melville would kick the ball. Before you knew it, that ball had air it prior hadn't used. We were a good group. A fat little boy, he was, Melville, but brave; he could kick that ball... The girls seemed to like him...
And this fellow over here had a tent. I would go in like a wandering body or inquiring about some issue prevalent in these parts; he would respectfully entertain my presence, maintaining a dignified air about him, and a watchful eye...or ear, for that matter. As I made my journey, I saw a man about the street I hadn't hitherto noticed. No, it is, it is. Much maligned in the States, is it? Maybe it could make a comeback as slang; yes, you can take it back overseas and spread the word. Is that the proper path, organically, for a word from the streets? Right, I saw him as I was looking ahead to his stead, and so I assumed this man was the homeowner, by all accounts, due to his proximity to the tent, and the general comfort about him in his space showed he could just hug his tent and pick it up. I was a bit disappointed I couldn't call on him in the manner I envisioned.
Still, I was stuck on the fiercely unique gentlemen across the street, the distinct air of disharmony left in the wake of our exchange. Surely, I was perplexed at this point. I took a moment to take in the full scope of the pesky sensation, an irritation, essentially, is what it boiled down to. When the homeowner asked me again if I had meant to bring him food, I realized he must have been standing there for some time to my ignorance. I made my move and felt when the bag had stuffed his chest whilst still musing upon that peculiar bloke.
- What's his story, over there? Do you know the fellow?
- Him? Nah, I don't know him.
- He hasn't taken to his lunch, it seems: which, oddly enough, he had accepted.
- I haven't seen him around. He new? Hey, he new? I haven't seen him around.
- Not hitherto?
- Nah, not hitherto. He doesn't want his food?
- Quite an existential conundrum here, I suspect we're witnessing.
- He doesn't want his food?
- It seems that way—I'm frankly embarrassed to admit.
- He'll eat it. Someone will. It's a good thing you're doing. There was more people here last week, but they've started clearing out.
- Oh, that's encouraging to hear. Fabulous, people are finding their way.
- No, from this area—they're clearing the people out.
- Oh, where will they go?
- Down the street to the park, I guess.
- At least you got the ocean.
What's that? Oh, I was just musing on my day. I've found that if I could talk about being of service to fill up some space time in this dreadful bus, it can work with my ego and give me incentive...well, until the magistrate sees it fit I've done my part. At this point, I'd like to thank you and the bus driver's tip is customary to leave 50%. What's that? Oh, yes, thanks for reminding me; here are your vouchers.
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