It was July 3rd,a very important day for our nation. It marks the day our land prepared to push itself out of the womb that was our founding fathers collective desire to not pay taxes and have a country that is so rich, everyone is as fat as they were. (They always depict John Hancock as fat, but maybe this is to make him seem jolly, like our nation was founded by Santa Claus) I was strolling down a Manhattan street in the blistering sun with some Canadians, refraining from chiding them for all the ways they are not like America. This may have been more due to the fact I had slept two hours after a night of drinking pure, undiluted foolishness, and less to do with diplomacy, but I guess I like to fantasize about having the ability to keep my mouth shut.
Had I been more alert, it's doubtful we would have been strolling down 8th avenue in Hell's Kitchen (now called 'Clinton' by people that like cities to have zero character). My first job in NY was on 8th ave. I know the area well. I'm not going to tell you what I did there, because it isn't relevant. However, I'd like you to believe me when I tell you that it had nothing to do with crack, selling myself, or selling myself crack.
A large, dirty man with chewed food coming out of his face approached the male Canadian, most likely because he thought dispatching him would grant the large dirty man control of the pride.
He got close enough to kiss him.
"Man, I'm homeless please don't act like I'm just-oh no, I'm going to throw up!"
It didn't matter that it sounded rehearsed, panic ensued. Trying to talk reason to this man would have yielded nothing but pieces of food on our clothes. Punching this man would have resulted in an explosion of said food pieces, as his cheeks were stuffed with chewed up hot-dog, making him appear like an awful chipmunk the good lord had forsaken.
Simply put, flight looked better than fight.
We scattered on the sidewalk, hoping he'd give up, but this man had little else to do that day. He followed us as we jogged down the avenue away from him, repeating his catchphrase:
"Man, I'm homeless please don't act like I'm just-oh no, I'm going to throw up!"
I raised my fists once or twice, knowing this was an empty threat. He knew as well as I that I didn't want his saliva or his hot dog.
"Man you spit any more food on my friend, and I swear to God...." and I couldn't finish the sentence.
The man laughed derisively as he turned away. He knew I wouldn't hit his face, and had other groups of people to terrorize.
His smile told me everything. He was not a crazy homeless. He was pulling a revolting, and in retrospect, hilarious, prank. He was probably on his day off from managing a Citibank branch.
This is going to be the next awesome way to harass tourists this summer. What's everybody doing on Saturday?
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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