Thursday, July 14, 2005
I met a guy once, and only in certain spots.
You could see them when he leaned over.
I couldn’t dart quick enough.
When his eyes caught you looking at them, those wells would just tip right over with great big old buckets of tears pouring right out.
He was graciously guttural in level and tone, as he whispered the situation to me.
“When I wash my hair it feels like potatoes, and combines are raining out my fingers.”
Later as sweat drept from my nose, I relayed this detail to the police sketch artist. I could see his anger in the jags of the pencil smearing graphite down the paper’s fibery teeth.
“Yeah, we see that a lot these days,” he said to me, “fucking homeless people, buying up all the real estate in the good will, decades of dinner parties and evening wear strung over these hipster/artists’ crack marrowed bones. They’ll stop right in the middle of the stream of the crosswalk, driftwood eyes staring back at you and just break down and cry.”
“And next thing you know, you’re in here missing a wallet, and I’m missing my son’s little league game to come in here and draw you a picture of some bald guy. Well, fuck off Mr. McGreggor, I’m turning in my badge and my pencil. I’m not working anymore Saturdays for petty theft. I have dreams too you know.”
You could see them when he leaned over.
I couldn’t dart quick enough.
When his eyes caught you looking at them, those wells would just tip right over with great big old buckets of tears pouring right out.
He was graciously guttural in level and tone, as he whispered the situation to me.
“When I wash my hair it feels like potatoes, and combines are raining out my fingers.”
Later as sweat drept from my nose, I relayed this detail to the police sketch artist. I could see his anger in the jags of the pencil smearing graphite down the paper’s fibery teeth.
“Yeah, we see that a lot these days,” he said to me, “fucking homeless people, buying up all the real estate in the good will, decades of dinner parties and evening wear strung over these hipster/artists’ crack marrowed bones. They’ll stop right in the middle of the stream of the crosswalk, driftwood eyes staring back at you and just break down and cry.”
“And next thing you know, you’re in here missing a wallet, and I’m missing my son’s little league game to come in here and draw you a picture of some bald guy. Well, fuck off Mr. McGreggor, I’m turning in my badge and my pencil. I’m not working anymore Saturdays for petty theft. I have dreams too you know.”
