The Switch
06-22-2012, 09:32 PM
Today I woke up under a park bench with a homeless guy named Mike. Sweet enough guy, a Veteran down on his luck, same old tale I suppose. Mike found me propped up against a tombstone in San Bernardino with a hissing cat and an expensive bottle of bourbon. He says he thought to just take the liquor, kick the cat, and feel me up but that I seemed too innocent to defile. But in the end he did drink the booze. The cat was cradled in my left arm asleep, totally oblivious to my coming back to life as silently as a deadly storm before the first crack of thunder.
Mike grinned a surprisingly white grin for a park bench dweller and thrust half a sandwich at my face as if to raise a white flag. I choked and coughed as I was apt to do upon reentry into the world. Mike wasn't phased and replaced the sandwich with a bottle of muggy water. I clutched the proffered sludge with greedy, broken nailed fingers and drank until I wretched. The cat stirred as I heaved, it's tiny black legs and claws stretching...in a fine mood for all of my dying to living theatrics. I snatched the sandwich up off of the muddy ground and kicked from beneath the park bench with an unladylike grunt. Crawling several feet away, I chewed an edge of bread while Mike's blue eyes sparkled with great humour. I didn't bother with formalities. I knew the score. I had lucked up this time upon awakening. Unfortunately, it wasn't always so. This was no longer 1967 and waking up beside of a strange man usually meant cruelty and games of survival before the blood rained. I eyed the situation as the scrawny black cat loosed a growl, demanding a sharing of the provisions. I ripped off a sliver of ham and tossed it far away, the cat followed suit.
Mike seemed quite enthralled with the entire process of saving the proverbial damsel, and introduced himself as he, too, crawled from beneath the bench to standing. He stood well over six feet, his once muscular frame wilted from time on the streets and the bottle. He smoothed back a crop of long but thinning hair.
"Hey, you're safe enough. Don't trip! What the jeez happ'n to you, man?"
I tried to ignore his use of the word 'Man" when it was pretty dang obvious that I was not. He waited, squatted on his haunches, to closely watch me assess my scratches and scars, pat myself free of dust and mire, my lip curled up in displeasure, my hair a tangle of WTH. I just groaned and asked in a voice of throaty Marlboro dust rag... "Where am I?"
Mike grinned a surprisingly white grin for a park bench dweller and thrust half a sandwich at my face as if to raise a white flag. I choked and coughed as I was apt to do upon reentry into the world. Mike wasn't phased and replaced the sandwich with a bottle of muggy water. I clutched the proffered sludge with greedy, broken nailed fingers and drank until I wretched. The cat stirred as I heaved, it's tiny black legs and claws stretching...in a fine mood for all of my dying to living theatrics. I snatched the sandwich up off of the muddy ground and kicked from beneath the park bench with an unladylike grunt. Crawling several feet away, I chewed an edge of bread while Mike's blue eyes sparkled with great humour. I didn't bother with formalities. I knew the score. I had lucked up this time upon awakening. Unfortunately, it wasn't always so. This was no longer 1967 and waking up beside of a strange man usually meant cruelty and games of survival before the blood rained. I eyed the situation as the scrawny black cat loosed a growl, demanding a sharing of the provisions. I ripped off a sliver of ham and tossed it far away, the cat followed suit.
Mike seemed quite enthralled with the entire process of saving the proverbial damsel, and introduced himself as he, too, crawled from beneath the bench to standing. He stood well over six feet, his once muscular frame wilted from time on the streets and the bottle. He smoothed back a crop of long but thinning hair.
"Hey, you're safe enough. Don't trip! What the jeez happ'n to you, man?"
I tried to ignore his use of the word 'Man" when it was pretty dang obvious that I was not. He waited, squatted on his haunches, to closely watch me assess my scratches and scars, pat myself free of dust and mire, my lip curled up in displeasure, my hair a tangle of WTH. I just groaned and asked in a voice of throaty Marlboro dust rag... "Where am I?"