Monday, August 06, 2007

The Sack

The gangly transvestite sauntered by, as second-hand cigar smoke, buoyed by the breeze, teased my nose.

I sat, in rogue fashion, high upon the back of the park bench, perched, as I was, with full perspective over the red-brick square block lot.

The park is one-block square. There is no grass, only brick. It lies catty-corner (kitty-corner?) from my building and is safe for suit-wearing slicks only during daylight hours. While the sun shines, the malfeasance is mitigated to mere occasional oddity, sufficient amusement for a 15 minute intermission.

Street kids, probably from good suburban families, clamor by loudly in zig zag formation. They have either an attention deficit, or perhaps a deficiency in attention. Either way, they wear their hearts on their sleeves (if they have sleeves), and probably wash the purple out of their hair before heading home to mom in the evening.

Horny male pigeons stalk their sexy lady-pigeon pals for what seems to be a never ending mating season. Every day, they are there, chests puffed out, tail feather splayed in macho presentation. Most prove not to be suitable suitors, as their pathetic procreative posturing is rebuffed and abandoned time after time. Apparently, some male pigeons do eventually succeed in wooing with their cooing, because there seems to be an endless supply of these rats of the sky.

A redhead with a perky sweater and a tight skirt walks her dog in front of us.

I try not to stare.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind me and to my right, a young man begins to yell with all of his might. He is loud. He is making a public announcement for all in the park to hear. We all turn to look; the kids, the tweakers, the suits, the transvestites, the pigeons and the girl with the dog.

He is young, early twenties, and looks like a Portland progressive. You know the type. Tall, thin, new mesh of facial hair creeping over his gauntly jowls. He wore a faded hipster t-shirt and nonchalant cargo shorts. His feet were wrapped in Jesus-like vegan Tevas. He looked idealistic, with that pre-crushed-by-the-reality-of-the-world glint of optimism in his eyes. A random act of kindness was brewing. Mr. Idealism was on a mission.

"FOOD!! WHO WANTS A SACK OF FREE FOOD??" He yelled, as he swung a plastic sack over his head.

It was a poorly-packed grocery sack, I could see as much, with odd box corners and can-shaped sags straining against the side.

He looked around. No one was taking his offer. He seemed perplexed. Here was a perfectly fine sack of food, I supposed, but he came at the wrong time. Sure, this park is well known for its homeless and other nocturnal wanderers, but it was 2:30 in the afternoon. Everyone who was there had already eaten.

"ANY HOMELESS PEOPLE WANT SOME FOOD?? NO?? ANYONE??"

We all looked approvingly at the brave, but odd, young do-gooder. Some of us nodded, and others just smiled, but no one took his food.

"ALL RIGHT, I'M JUST GOING TO PUT THE SACK DOWN HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PARK. IF YOU KNOW ANY HOMELESS PEOPLE WHO WANT FREE FOOD, TELL THEM ITS HERE!!"

And with that, he put down the bag in the center of the block and walked away. I wondered briefly what was in the bag, and whether an actual homeless person would have the means to prepare it. I mean, there were boxes and cans, and that sort of thing usually requires fire, water and/or electricity...

I was embarrassed for his awkward maneuver and miscalculation, but I also admired his intention. Whether he purposefully purchased the sack of food to hand out, or whether he found himself with an unexpected surplus, I could not tell. I just hope that by tomorrow, the contents of the sack will have been put to good use.

15 comments:

  1. You write better drunk.

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  2. Is Brian the horny pigeon, the transvestite with the cigar, or the altruistic hippie?

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  3. All of the above. Each one of the characters in the story is a representation for an aspect of his psyche.

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  4. Was the bag a metaphore for the unknowns in life that await us? Maybe an opportunity knocking? Could the contents of the bag tell us something about ourselves that we didnt know or simply won't admit?

    The fact that no one would accept the bag means something...perhaps, we as humans are not smart enough to help ourselves.

    Maybe the bag represents the answers to global warming?

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  5. Anonymous10:59 AM

    I think "the sack" represents Brian's testicles.

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  6. Anonymous12:48 PM

    Metaphor, not metaphore. Apparently dentists spell like shit, too.

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  7. hmmm... the commenters are getting testy...

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  8. Hey anonymous, Take your beatings like the rest of us and reveal your identity...pussy.

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  9. Anonymous3:28 PM

    What, are you gonna hold me down and clean my teeth?

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  10. Oh my... what a bunch of Freudians we have here.

    That is an interesting story though. I think the guy really was sort of a douchebag.

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  11. I think the duchebag represents my my inner desire to bathe in Lysol

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  12. A confession. At first I thought anonymous' "hold me down and clean my teeth" comment was a vagina joke. Then I realized it was a dentist joke. Sometimes dentists and vaginas are in the same joke, but perhaps not this time.

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  13. Hey Anonymous, remember this quote.

    "Is it safe?" -The marathon Man

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  14. Thanks for making me laugh today. I added you to my link list.

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Be compelling.

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