OBSERVATIONS OF A MAN ON THE STREET

Some days I almost can’t believe my eyes!  The way people dress to go out in public—and I’m not talking about Wal*Mart.  I suppose I might get beat up if I asked that woman over there—the one wearing sheer panty-hose over bikini underwear—did she have a mirror in her house?

And girl, you over there—Wanda Widebody–if you are going to wear booty shorts you need to consider spending a year or three at the gym. I like girl-butts as well as the next guy, but in moderation.

Here’s a picture for you:  A big man, I mean, weight-lifter big, with a tiny Chihuahua on a leash.  I thought that was funny until this skinny little girl strolls by with two black Newfoundlands.  Beautiful beasts, but mercy, they must be hot with all that fur!

I don’t really mind not being able to afford a TV.  I have all the entertainment I need here on the street.

Some stuff I don’t much enjoy.  Like mothers dragging their little kids through this crowd.  The kids are obviously tired and hungry and about half asleep on their feet, what with the lateness of the hour and the heavy herbal presence wherever you go.

I’d offer to take them on my lap and let them rest, but if you want to see a cop, that would draw them from where ever they are hiding.

The other day I saw something, and I’m still wondering if I should have reported it.  This guy is out here with his kid in one of those elaborate wheelchairs—the kind you have for quadriplegics or cerebral palsy. The kid was fascinated with a jazz ensemble on the street, and he reached toward it, but his hand flopped like a fish. His dad grabbed the hand, pushed it under a strap on the wheelchair, and then slapped the kid.

What caregivers have to go through!  I’m sure it must drive them to distraction sometimes, but still, if he does that in public, what does he do at home?  Guess I’ll never know.

One thing I do know.  Next time I see someone in trouble I will try to help.

Like that lady over there, the one coming out of Benny’s Quick Stop.  Looks like she can hardly walk, and she just tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, her groceries flying everywhere. A can of salmon rolled over to me, and I stopped it with my foot. I also picked up a couple of oranges after they rolled into the gutter.

“Let me help.  I’ll put these back in the bag.  Where is your bag?”

“You leave me alone, you dirty hippy! Don’t you touch my food.”

Fine. I threw them back on the sidewalk and they rolled out into the street just as a bicycle cop showed up.

“Why are you throwing fruit on the street?”

“I was just trying to help this woman—she tripped and dropped her groceries. She doesn’t want my help.”

The cop chuckled. “I’m sure she doesn’t.  That’s Marge.  She swiped those oranges and a few other things from over there, pointing at the convenience store. He reached behind himself, grabbed handcuffs and tried to handcuff her, but not before she swung her big purse—heavy with more contraband, bricks, from the weight of it—and whacked me on the back of the head.

By this time we have drawn a bit of a crowd.  Glad I could entertain them.

So we’re both getting a ride to our night’s lodging.  Marge is going to the pokey and I’m going to the ER to get stitches on my head.

 

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