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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post nine (final)

April 17th, 2008 by APK

———–

She crossed the street and walked in a straight line that terminated at my body. Her cream colored T-shirt was tucked into her black jeans and she shook her head as she saw me, but lacked any sort of smile or grin. Slowing the closer she got, eventually she reached me and stood right in front of me. Her hand slid out of her jeans back pocket where it had been resting and moved right between us, holding something. The knife blade flicked out of its handle with a slight metallic snap, blade pointing directly at my stomach.

“Just so we understand each other,” she said with no hint of humor at all. This was off to a great start.

This was, in the immortal words of someone back in the 60’s I’m sure, the most uncool vibe, dude. I refused to back off, no way was she going to intimidate me. I was too smooth for that, too on the ball and too cool. Alright, so I took a step backwards but it was only one step and it wasn’t even that big. More like a half-step really. She laughed when I did it, damn her, and closed the knife replacing it in her back pocket.

“Lighten up, Wit Boy, I just ain’t taking chances with you right now. Got the cash?”

“What is this, Hunt for Red October? I give you the cash you, won’t kill me and I can keep the microfiche and defect?” She sighed and shook her head when I said that, maybe she just wasn’t a Clancy fan. Hell, I’m not a Clancy fan, but when in Rome and all that.

“For the last fucking time, cut the crap, Wit Boy.”

“Will you stop calling me Wit Boy? My name is Thomas”

“It’s Wit Boy or Fuckface.”

“Wit Boy it is.”

“I thought so. The cash?” What was it with her?

“What is it with you?” I asked softly, hoping my sheer honesty would disarm her, figuratively if not literally.

“I just don’t have the time for this ok? Look,” she reached into her back pocket again and I braced for round two of West Side Story but all she did was pull out my ID, “here’s your card, ok?” It was my turn to shake my head as I reached out and snapped the ID out of her hand. I shoved it into my pocket and came back with the cash which I offered out to her. She took it slowly from me and smiled.

“That wasn’t so hard now was it?” She looked off into space for a second, “So where to now?”

“What? What do you mean where to now?”

“Dinner? A bar? Where are we going?”

“What the fuck are you on about, woman?”

“Oh, this was probably your last sixty wasn’t it? Alright, I’ll buy dinner.”

“You are completely bug-fuck aren’t you?”

“How do you mean?”

“You have so far, in the last few minutes only, pulled a knife on me, insulted me and threatened me. Now you want to buy me dinner?”

“Oh, well when you put it like that…”

“There are other ways to put it?”

“Well, maybe?” I was utterly baffled now. I mean what was she on? This woman was hardcore gone. Hard. Core. To think, I was still attracted to this loon. I had to be just as insane, but less MPD, to even be considering this shit. I suddenly felt the need to reexamine my priorities, even as I started to think of decent places to go for a drink with her. I needed to find a woman named Chartrine or something, anything but this. I had to just say no, cut my losses and run the fuck home so she couldn’t follow me. Hell she probably had my address memorized and would find me in the middle of the night and stab me 58 times in the face before washing in my blood and calling it a night. I had to just cut my losses here and tell her no, gently. Very gently, lest she go all stabbity on me again.

“Well, I’ve always been fond of Sidewalk. I can introduce you around to some of my friends.” Why had that come out of my mouth? She smiled at me and pocketed the cash. We went to Sidewalk.

At Sidewalk we found Carlos, who then explained my life story to her, much to my dismay, including his part in lending me the money. It was, though, an easy time. Relaxing and enjoyable, aside from the spine creep I had wondering when her personality would shift again. It did briefly, I think, during a round of pool. She scowled at me and started with the “Wit Boy” shit again, but it passed just as fast as it had come on. All of us hung out till about 3am. Carlos even called Ben and got him to join us near the end of the evening.

Around 3am we all split up and she wrote her number on my arm in ink, after a painful and aborted attempt with a mechanical pencil, and made me promise to call her soon. On the way home, Ben quizzed me about her and I explained the odd personality shifts but he brushed them off as ‘hormones’. No, sorry, that was all a show of pure psychosis if there ever was one. Still, there was something right about the whole thing to me. Maybe a relationship with someone as scattered and random as the City itself was would be good for me. I was in love with my City, it was my first true love and always would be. Then again maybe, like the City, it would incur casualties and calls to the Police. Life would bring me something utterly unexpected, that much I knew. It always did, in this town.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post eight

April 16th, 2008 by APK

———–

I forgot to even wave at the doorman who hated me and flew in and out of the elevator and down the hall to jam my keys into the various gaping holes in my door that would allow me entrance. As I got close to the door though, as I hit the home stretch, I could hear the phone ringing. I pushed open the door and flew for the phone as it stopped ringing and my answering machine picked up. It picked up to a dial tone and I cursed even louder then, reaching for the phone to read its caller-ID. It said only “Out of Area”. Shit, after all that I missed her fucking call.

I cursed, I railed against the heavens and MTV, I vented to Shiva and Kali and Zeus about my damned luck. After all I had gone through all day I missed her call? I hauled my ass from one end of this burg and back for nothing? All my efforts had been wasted on an uncaring universe and I had had enough. All this bullshit over a shirt. Not a blouse, a SHIRT alright? A shirt, shirt, SHIRT! Two sleeves, a collar and some fucking buttons. That makes a shirt, bloodied or not. ARGH! How could I have missed that fucking call.

I sat on the edge of my coffee table and grabbed the remote, flipped on the TV and cruised angrily through the channels for a while. News, infomercial, news, ad, boxing, Spanish soap opera, baseball, ad, baseball, Bob Villa, Dragnet, ad, news, infomercial, some dumb Travolta movie, infomercial, ad, ad, ad, ad, ad, ad, infomercial for a stain remover “removes the toughest stains from grass to blood!”

That did it. My finger jabbed the ‘off’ button and I flung the remote. I needed to get out, maybe hit a bar and see if I could get anyone to buy me a drink. Good chance Carlos would be out tonight and if he was he would probably hit Sidewalk so I could always head there and give him his sixty back. I tossed off my “Free Vidicon” shirt and found a deep maroon button down cotton shirt to replace it with. Now I was in proper attire for a night out. This was gonna have to be one hell of a night to make up for all of today’s shit. I was still grumbling as I closed my door and locked it behind me. It was, in fact, while I was clicking home the bottom lock that I heard the phone ring. God … fucking … ARGH! I unlocked the door as fast as I could and ran for the phone, grabbing it as the 4th ring started.

“Hello?” I barked into the phone hoping to get whomever it was to not hang up.

“Sorry I’m late.” It was a woman, but not a voice I sound instantly recognizable . I ventured a guess.

“Michelle?”

“He remembers my name, how cute. It’s good for the guy who smashed your nose to remember your name.”

“Yeah, and I have the money for you, as promised.”

“Of course you do, you think this is all about you right?”

“I don’t follow…”

“Yes you do. That wit of yours that you count on to get you through the day, you know exactly what I mean, Wit Boy.”

“No, really I don’t. Promise.”

“You think we’ll meet and I’ll be so astounded you have the money and come to meet me that I’ll date you or some shit. Maybe you think I’ll just go to bed with you right then?”

“What? No! I just want to try and make up for…”

“And try to get in my pants.” She was, of course, right. I had been hoping this whole time that this could lead to a date and maybe more of them down the road.

“No. I just want to… look we have obviously gotten off on the wrong foot here…”

“Yeah, it all went south when you almost broke my nose.”

“That was an accident!”

“Yes, yes. Well listen Wit Boy, I don’t have all night. What do you say we meet at the Arch in half an hour and you give me some cash, and we forget we ever knew each other?”

“The one in Washington Square Park?”

“There are others?” Well no, not really, she had a point.

“Well no, not really, you have a point.”

“So you in or out, Wit Boy?”

“In.”

“Thirty minutes,” and with that she hung up on me. I put the phone down. There was no way I was going to cut my time short on this, even though it was only a 10 or so minute walk to the park from here, so I grabbed my keys and left again.

I walked down to the park slowly, just taking in the city. It was a quarter to nine and the village was just starting to really come alive for the night. I loved it like this, less tourists out and more actual residents just getting themselves out and about for a while. Sadly, there were also a lot more NYU students out and about. Don’t misunderstand me, I have nothing against them in principle. NYU brings a lot of good money to the City and to this area in specific but … well did they have to be so annoying? Way too many of them seemed to feel they owned the city simply because Mommy and Daddy paid a lot for them to be here and because they had a lot of disposable income.

I saw three women leaning against the fence around the Arch that fit the bill perfectly. Two of them were obviously film students with the last one a liberal arts or possibly English major. Live here long enough and you can spot majors by style. The two film students, one with a purple buzz cut and the other with black ponytails that had pink tips, were gesturing minorly towards the English major with her short brown bob. The English major wasn’t used to wearing contacts yet, as her hand would occasionally stray to her nose to push up glasses she wasn’t wearing tonight. Buzz Cut kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Either she had to go to the bathroom or she was waiting for something. Ponytail kept giving Buzz Cut eye rolls whenever English couldn’t see, stopping only to answer her cel which, disgustingly enough, matched the pink tips of her ‘tails. She conferred with her phone while I wandered past the trio to grab a bench with a view of the Arch. I had to sit sort of sideways to manage it but this way I could sit for the next ten minutes.

So I sat, people watched and waited. Then I waited some more, watching the time creep by. After somewhere close to 5 minutes a guy came up to the trio by the Arch and grabbed Buzz Cut in an embrace. She then gestured around as if introducing him to the others, showing him off before the four of them walked away together to go off and do something else. Chances are the date would ditch her friends soon enough and the other two would head back to their dorm and bitch about her.

From my right, the side facing the lane I would be looking at if I had been sitting properly, I felt something stir and heard small movements like cloth rustling gently. I had a bad feeling there was a mime nearby and turned slowly to see nothing but a pigeon walking around close to the bench. Thank god it was one of those disease carriers instead.

This was taking too long, the thirty minutes had come and gone and I was entering into the belief that this was a prank of sorts. I decided to give her five more minutes and then go home and get my ID cancelled in the morning. It was only another three minutes before I caught sight of her coming down 5th Ave towards the park and stood up to stand where I too would be visible.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post seven

April 15th, 2008 by APK

———–

I jogged out of my apartment, waved at the doorman who hated me, and hit the street. I really didn’t like how tight the timing for this trip was, but I saw no good choice so I went straight up 15th to avoid the slowdowns of crowds and moved west to 7th to get back on the 1/9. I had started to feel, not for the first time, that I spent about half my waking life on this train. I hit the station and waited impatiently for a train, smiling to myself as luck gave me a small boon in the form of a 2 train. The express wouldn’t stop where I needed to get off but it would get me that much closer a lot faster. I got on and we barreled to 34th and then 42nd, where I had to leave my zippy chariot behind and transfer to a 1/9 to get the rest of the way. I rode the train to 59th, yes the same station where this whole fucked up mess started, and took the stairs down to the D (and A, B and C. It’s like taking trains in a Jackson 5 nightmare some days) to head uptown to Carlos.

I hate the D train, that has to be said. It rockets uptown like a beast out of the pit slamming itself from 59th Street all the way to 125th in one fell swoop. I don’t know why swoops fall, but they do and that’s what they’re like once they’ve fallen. Then it plays hide and seek with the stops. Is it express? Is it local? Does anyone know? No one ever seems to and it gets old after a while; well it would get older I suppose if I ever needed to stop at one of the stations it might or might not skip.

As I sat there I noticed a woman, older and rocking back and forth in her seat. Around 161st street she stood up. I was fascinated by her rocking, in time to the swaying of the train but obviously artificially exaggerated. It didn’t stop as she stood and slowly dragged her feet to a door. When I say slowly, understand she stood up at 161st Street as the train opened the doors and reached the doors as we were pulling out of 167th. A walk of less than 10 feet shouldn’t take 4 minutes to achieve. I was soon very sorry she had made it because all at once she started making sheep noises. I mean full blown loud “BAAAAAH”s. After every one she would stop and laugh just as loudly. Well who doesn’t like a bit of pleasant country atmosphere with their train ride. This kept up for a few more stops until she added another twitch to the act, knocking on the Plexiglas window of the train door and asking “Hello?” in between the bleating and laughing. We had achieved freak liftoff.

The other passengers were just as stunned as I was, all of us either staring openly at her or stealing glances while trying to look disinterested. How could you not be interested in this? How many other towns have free performance art on their mass transit systems, and best of all she wasn’t asking for money. I started to ponder requesting a new animal, just to see what she would do, but decided against it, lest she turn her Orwellian eye towards me all “two legs bad, four legs good” and shit. We hit Fordham Road and thankfully she got off, turning to stand and wave at the train as it moved on without her.

I rode onward to Bedford Park where I departed the station with both grace and ease. I walked over to 201st and Briggs and found the building I was looking for, ringing the bell with unbridled impatience. It was hitting about 6:20 now and I was nothing close to pleased.

The buzzer sounded and I had to cope with the trick of opening both the outer and inner doors in the space of one buzz. I ended up pushing the heavy solid metal outer door as fast and hard as I could while trying to kick out to catch the inner door, only to find the inner door had a handle. I buzzed again and got the inner door open. You had to wonder how the delivery guys managed it. Hell they probably had some secret door opening device that would latch handles and shit, all slick and smooth, or maybe the chow mien was just that powerful. Regardless of the mysteries of take-out, I got in and hopped the elevator to 4. As I exited the 1960’s fake wood paneled box I saw Carlos standing half in his door waiting for me.

“Yo, gato, wassuuuup? Chico needs some bling-bling huh?” he said with a big shit eating grin.

“Carlos, cut the ‘I’m Hispanic and live in the Bronx’ crap. Why do you feel the need to pull that shit every time I come see you?”

“Alright, fine, fuck you Gringo, I’m just keeping it real and shit like fuckin’ Budweiser tells me to.” He made no motion to move aside or offer me in. Carlos’ little misshapen goatee sat on his chin like Pythagoras’ wet dream.

“Jesus fucking wept. You are such a bundle of fuckery.”

“That’s why you love me. That’s why the ladies love Carlos too.”

“Yah and some call you Maurice the gangster of love. So can I borrow sixty?”

“‘Til when?”

“Until I get my damned check and deposit it.”

“First of the month? That’s like a week or so away,” he sighed dramatically, “Yeah alright, hold on.” He stepped back into his apartment and closed the door leaving me in the hallway. In all the years I’ve known Carlos I have never seen the inside of his place, excepting the small bit visible when he opened his door. Mostly we caught each other in bars. After a few seconds he reappeared with the cash and handed it over. We exchanged various insults and goodbyes and I took the stairs on the way down.

I walked back to the D fairly quickly, noting it was now just past 6:30 and waited for a train thankful for my Metro Card so I didn’t have to eat up more cash with all the train rides today. It came and I got on, glancing at my watch every minute or so, watching the time slip away. It was about 7:45 by the time we hit 59th Street again thanks to a few assholes holding doors and other basic subway delays and I ran upstairs to catch a 1/9. There was, I knew, no way to make it. I knew it but I wasn’t about to admit defeat and so I stood on the platform, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The train came after what felt like hours (and was in actuality four minutes) and as we went I kept my eyes open for a possible transfer to an express again, but no such luck. I got out of station at 14th and 7th at 8:01 and cursed loudly to no one as I started to jog eastward and home.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post six

April 14th, 2008 by APK

———–

I unlocked my door and stepped into my all too humble abode. Let’s pause for station identification, alright? Sometimes I can be a mite unfair and I’ve just been running on with no due diligence in explanations. It’s the way of life, one thing after the next and the next and the next never really ending long enough to catch up. So, fuck the rules for a second. How does a grown man live in Manhattan in a building with a doorman and have a problem finding a lousy 60 dollars to pay for a bloodied shirt?

I have no job, let’s get that out of the way. I, Thomas Klien, am unemployed which is why I describe myself as a professional native. Do not assume that I’m some sort of slacking independently wealthy playboy just fucking around with my life. Untrue, I am not independently wealthy nor a playboy. Not really at any rate. Just the benefactor of some nice luck.

When I was a wee tot my grandmother decided I was some kind of perfect creature, the way many relatives decide such things of children they don’t have to live with for long periods of time. I was, to be blunt, a suck up. I mean, she was ok, a nice lady really, but no where near as great as I made her out to be whenever I saw her. When she wasn’t there I was your standard terror of a child, Calvin without his mood stabilizers. Oh but when she would show up for a visit, or my parents would drag me out to see her, I was a damned angel for her. My parents saw through it but what could they do except keep saying “He isn’t like this really…” which would get them evil glares from Granny who would not abide cross thoughts about her little darling. Well that kept up for years and years.

She lived on the edge of the East Village and would let me crash on her floor and call my parents from there so I could hang out downtown and be myself, exploring and learning who and what I was and wanted to be, as late as I needed to be out having fun and self-discovering epics. I would go and wake her up, and she never seemed to mind too much so long as I wasn’t drunk. My parents had to stop complaining that I wasn’t home, up in the wonderful homes of Yonkers (Which was and is a different country than the rest of NY. Border guards ask for a passport to get in or out.) so long as they knew I was with Granny. Good old Granny.

I remember I was about 18 and walking around for a while and spotted this guy with a slack face that looked like it wanted to melt right off his face and a t-shirt that read “Your village called. They miss their idiot.” and just started laughing. Not with the shirt, of course, but at him. Sadly he wasn’t a small man and he disagreed with my appreciation of his looks and attire. Words were exchanged, accompanied by my feet slowly back peddling trying to keep out of his reach in case he decided to rip off my face and use it as his own half melted one. Maybe that was why his face looked like that, the last victims face was just a bad fit. I really had no desire to stick around and find out.

Back and back my feet went, while this brute told me in slow and simple detail exactly how he was going to rearrange my face. He kept using those words and it was freaking me out, all things considered. Then I heard someone, my grandmother, call my name. I said “Hi” without looking away from the man monster in front of me and kept easing backwards. She eventually stepped in front of me and faced this man-thing down herself. She tsk’d at him and shook her head and asked him if he knew where she could find a cop in case she needed to have him arrested for starting a fight in the middle of the street. He gave me the finger and plodded off into the day ahead of him to be swallowed by the City forever.

She had saved me, that was so cool. Then she turned to me, slapped me upside the head and said “This is how you compose yourself?” and walked away.

When she died, a few years later, a few months after my 24th birthday, I was crushed. I couldn’t stand it, didn’t want to believe it at all. When they read her will and it was discovered she had left me her rent controlled apartment and a tidy sum of money I took it, but guiltily at first. I am in no way rich, but I live decently off a monthly stipend from that lump. Between that monthly lump and my insanely low rent I get by. None of which helped me now as I was strapped for cash until the next check came in a few days.

I shook myself out of reverie and reached for the phone. I started to dial a number from memory and waited while the ringing commenced.

“Golden Palace.” Shit that was the number for the chinese place down the block. I knew the number was familiar. I briefly considered some dumplings while I made more calls until I remembered that I was making the calls because I had no cash. I apologized for dialing the wrong number and hung up.

I started to look for my address book on the end table that also served as my phone stand. It had to be in one of the drawers, where else could it be? I found all sorts of things: paperclips, receipts, menus, $3.47 in loose change, a dead fly, some hair that was very not mine, one red sock also not mine, and four books of matches. I needed to clean out those drawers more often. I did not, however, spot an address book anywhere. I lifted the couch’s cushions and checked under the recliner and behind the TV. Eventually my brain clicked over and said two words to me, “Banana Guacamole”. Of course, how could I have missed that? I sighed and wandered over to the freezer and there it was, sandwiched between some fish sticks and frozen burritos. It must’ve ended up in there last week when I was looking for a number to call a friend and was unpacking food at the same time. Carlin was right all along. Who knew?

I flipped through the chilly and slightly damp book and grabbed the phone again, dialing. It rang four times and just as the answering machine clicked on it clicked right off and a voice answered the phone with a sleepy, “Wha?”

“Carlos, it’s Tom. I need sixty bucks semi-instantly, man. Can you hook me up, I’ll toss it back to you in a week or so, no shit.” It took a few seconds for that to percolate into Carlos’ obviously half-asleep brain.

“Uhhh …. yeah, ok. Come get it though.” Shit, I had no choice so I agreed and said I’d be there soonest. Carlos, as luck would have it, lived in the Bronx all the way at the ass end of the D line. It was a bit after 5 now and the trip would cost me about an hour each way. Doable certainly, so long as I moved now. I was really starting to resent that silk shirt.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post five

April 11th, 2008 by APK

———–

Five

I moved east on 14th street and cut uptown a block to 15th once I reached 3rd Ave. Not far from the corner was 200 E 15th, also known as “where I lived”. I smiled at the doorman who hated me and waited for the elevator. I got in the car and started to press 5 to head to my apartment out of sheer habit then moved my hand up a bit and jabbed at the 7 like it had offended me in some subtle way. If Ben needed to espouse about the loss of his most recent girlfriend then who was I to ignore a friend in need.

I slid out of the elevator, old slow thing that it was, and started off down the hall to 7B. My thumb and the doorbell had a prolonged conversation with each other that resulting in a sustained grating buzzing noise that I knew could not fail to grab the attention of not only Ben but also the occupants of apartments on either side. I heard the slight scrap of metal on metal as the peephole cover was slid aside. That was followed in short order by snapping open of locks, three in total, and then the door was slowly opened.

Ben stood in the doorway wearing that most classic of outfits, a frayed blue terrycloth bathrobe over a t-shirt and shorts. His blonde mohawk was flopped over to the right, sleeping limply on the side of head covering his spider tattoo. His all too thin frame seemed even gaunter than usual due to the haunted look in his eyes. He turned on his heel without a word and shuffled into the apartment.

His unit was pretty much a duplicate of mine in layout. It was a small studio apartment with a tiny kitchen and bathroom off what was supposed to pass as the entrance hall. Unlike my own place Ben had chosen to decorate his dwelling in early post-modern geek, or in other words cheap: beaten down IKEA with burn holes, random circuit boards and bits of melted metal imbedded in most of it. Designing Women this wasn’t. Delta Burke would’ve been forced screaming into the hallway in search of an E! Fashion Emergency crew. I followed him to the couch and sat heavily, not quite sure what I should say. Ben just sat there staring ahead as if he was still alone, making me wonder if I could do any good here regardless of having the right or wrong words. I ventured a hesitant “So…” and let it float pregnant in the air hoping it might give birth to a full conversation if it was just left alone for a few.

Ben slowly turned his head towards me, noticing me sitting next to him at last.

“Chartrine … she, you know … well she … yeah,” he said hesitantly and then slumped back into the couch.

“I heard man, that’s why I’m here. Anything I can do for you?”

“I don’t know Tom. I just … I don’t know. I mean this is where we bond over women and get drunk and piss on a trailer or something isn’t it? That’s what they always do right? So how come I don’t feel like it huh?”

“Maybe you need to get out a while, go to work, live your life like normal. Not this zombie shit you seem into right now.” Ben looked around slowly taking in his own attire as well as the general state of affairs. He looked like he was taking stock of things, and I had to just hope I was right. Then he shook his head sadly and said “No.” before standing up and walking towards the door. He took a sudden turn and slid into the kitchen, as much as a plodding depressed man can slide. I could hear him moving things around in there and considered following but given the small space we would be on top of each other or I’d be standing just outside the room and still have that odd air of distance anyway. I sat where I was and raised my voice slightly to ask “So what happened man?”

“We were just sitting here,” he began slowly, “having dinner and watching some movie she had wanted to rent. Then as the credits rolled she just turned to me and told me she was leaving.”

“No.”

“Yes! I thought she meant she was going home had a headache that sort of thing, fine whatever, so I asked her you know, I asked her when I’d see her later on. She said I wouldn’t and that Joel was a great guy.” He came back out of the kitchen and started pacing the length of his apartment. I hated people who paced, drove me nuts, but I couldn’t exactly tell him to sit the hell down and stop. So instead I fed Ben the line he wanted.

“She said that? She really said that?” He nodded without looking at me and kept pacing.

“Yeah, she said that. Just like that, flat you know, flat and I thought maybe she was kidding. I didn’t even know a Joel…”

“Yeah we do, Joel Rhineback that guy you used to buy imported shit from?”

“Fine, I know a Joel, but it wasn’t him. Anyway, she went on to give me this whole speech about how this Joel was going someplace and the restaurants he owns, you know La Bulbo? That’s his. So she tells me all this and starts in on how she thinks we aren’t going anywhere and it’s a dead end thing and she needs to be free.”

“She needed to be free?”

“That’s what she said. Free. So, anyway, I start in about how we aren’t standing still and she is free already but come on you know that once someone gives you that whole speech there’s no use right? I did it ’cause I felt like it was the thing I should say.”

“Yeah, really.”

“I haven’t slept yet man, I’ve just been running it all around over and over, the whole relationship. Trying to convince myself it doesn’t matter really.”

“It doesn’t. Relationships with people named Chartrine do not, in general, count. Trust me on this ok? It’s in a book somewhere. Chartrine’s are the exceptions.”

“You always hated her name.”

“Chartrine isn’t a name. It’s a bad crayon color. Come on man, sit down we’ll relax a bit and then you can get some fucking sleep. Sound good?” I suppose it did sound good to him. Ben came and sat back down on the couch and I got up and slid in his DVD of Tromeo and Juliet. After that he wanted to watch Fight Club to try and get himself reacting again, give him something to push against. We spent hours watching movies and starting to joke like normal again and between the movies and the talking it was about 5pm by the time he let me out and went to crash. I had three hours to find some money and get all this taken care of. It was looking worse and worse but Ben had needed me and I couldn’t really say no. I grabbed the elevator and wandered off to my own apartment to begin the quest a few hours late and more than a few dollars short.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post four

April 10th, 2008 by APK

————–

Four

I admit that finding a lousy sixty dollars should not have been a problem. It was about 10am so that left me ten solid hours to get the money and be at home. Thankfully, I hadn’t moved recently so the ID I gave Michelle would have a valid address and I knew I was in the book. She would be able to call and we could go from there assuming I was able to get the money. All this over a damned shirt and bloody nose.

Since my cell phone had been turned off, I figured I would be best off heading home to make some calls and see if I could spot myself a loan from a friend. I stood around and waited for the next 1/9 to show up. I had myself a decent wait for one too, as the trains slowed down their frequency in the just-slightly post morning rush hour glow. Finally one ground to a halt and spat out passengers, waiting to swallow a few more whole. I hopped into the car closest to me, found a seat and let myself sink heavily into the hard molded, hideously orange, plastic comfort.

One sweet Bee-boop later and the train shuddered to life throwing itself massively down the tracks with enough momentum that I was waiting for a fat Scotsman to pop out explaining that he “cannae push ‘er any morrrrrrrre”. No such luck as the train continued unabated sweeping past 50th street without slowing, only the obnoxiously loud honking of the horn to signal our intent to push on. As we passed the station in full a voice came over the speaker letting us know that “This train will be sipping stops until fawlty sermons street.” That was fine by me, I didn’t need 42nd Street; I just needed to count sheep until 14th. If the MTA decided they had to skip a few stops to try and get back on some mystic schedule, that no mere mortal had ever seen, in an effort to make up for various rush hour delays I would abide by their choice. The mighty Wizard of Oz himself could not decipher the fluid and ever fucked train schedules going on here. That is, so he claimed once, why he had a hot air balloon in the first place (It was a deleted scene in the movie, trust me here).

42nd came and went as did 34th, 28th and 23rd and I watched as 14th Street (Transfer here for the 2, 3, F, L, and M14 bus. At least that’s what they’re supposed to say.) slid into view with a mad rush. People were just blurs with Starbucks cups, as NYU students by the ass-load stood on the platform. The train slowed as it went, screeching to a halting and bucking stop and I stood and turned waiting for the doors to open. Bee-boop went the magic tone and I stepped out onto the platform, ducking past a small herd of NYU Film School students. I briefly considered taking the L cross town to 3rd Ave. but it generally wasn’t worth the wait when it was at all nice out.

I ducked out of the station back onto the street and headed east on 14th toward home. There were way too many people on the street at this hour, but then it always felt like that; didn’t these people have jobs? I strolled down the block trying to convince my feet to hurry but at the same time fighting the urge to people watch as I went.

I spotted a thin Spanish woman tugging on the leash of a brown Q-tip of a Pekinese with a bright red bow tied firmly to the top of its head. She was busy screaming at it in Spanish which the mutt gave no impression of comprehending. The woman would tug sharply on the leash, then look back at the dog whose small eyes were bugging out more than normal as it got strangled repeatedly - which would set her off screaming again.

Glancing around showed me that I wasn’t the only dog watcher out today. A pair of joggers, leaning gracefully against a lamppost and sipping water, had stopped their stretching to watch Animal Planet unfold before their eyes. Both were men and the taller of the two kept leaning over and whisper to his companion, resulting in a strangled Horshack-esque laugh each time. The shorter one spotted me watching them and said something to his friend who then had to see me for himself. They stood silent for a moment just looking at me, waiting for me to perform some grand act for them or maybe just trying to get me to look away. Neither happened and after another few seconds they resumed casting glances towards the dog. I resumed my forward movement and got maybe ten more steps before a voice bellowed out to my left.

“Ay, yo! Tommy!” rang the voice that echoed off windows on the other side of the street and, I verified with a spare peek, caught the attention of both the joggers and Spanish woman (the dog didn’t give a damn). I was fairly sure I knew the voice and turned already in mid-sigh to see Fat Tony.

Fat Tony was a well known issue. I knew of no one who called him anything other than “Fat Tony” and certainly he deserved the appellation. Fat Tony was, well, fat. Immense. Obese. Straight out of a Weird “Al” video type of fat. Bursting at the seams kind of fat. Large with a side order of goddamn. He also seemed to consider himself a good friend of mine. Ever since I could remember walking down this street he had adopted me, as well as scores of other residents. Once he had learned my name he promptly bastardized it down to “Tommy” and acted as if that brought us even closer than before. He was a nice guy though, so no one told him off or really did much of anything but go over and say hi. I finished my sigh and walked over to him.

“Hey Fat Tony, what’s news?” Yeah we even called him that to his face; it’s how he introduced himself I tell you.

“Tommy, how ya been man? Ain’t see youse in a while. You ain’t gotten too big for ol’ Fat Tony have ya?”

“Never, never. Listen, I should really run. Gotta find me a loan on the quick. A little snatch and grab on the fly sorta deal. Just till the first of the month when I get my check you know?”

“Yea, I got you. I’m kinda strapped myself or I’d love to help a brother out, man. So have ya heard about Bennie?” Ben was programmer who lived in my building. We met when he first moved in, he saw me in the hall and asked if he could borrow a flask of sake. It was a strange enough request that we became good friends in short order. We also had the same taste in movies (Ed Wood, Rodger Corman, Troma) and music (Ellington, Oakenfeld, Doughty, Waits).

“No, I haven’t seen Ben in a day or so, why? What did you hear?”

“Word is that Bennie’s little hot number left him for some big shot restaurant guy last night. He didn’t tell you?” Ben’s girlfriend, now ex I suppose, was a waif-like creature who went by the painfully fake name “Chartrine”. I never did figure those two out.

“I told you I haven’t seen Ben in a day or two, ships in the night kind of thing.”

“Well he was looking for youse about an hour ago, asked if I’d seen ya but I said no I hadn’t, because until now I hadn’t seen youse at all recently. I told him I would tell youse that he would be at home if I did see youse around, and now I did.”

“Well … thanks. I’ll go find him.” I worked to boil that glob of useless verbiage down to “Ben would like to converse” and moved off at a pace no longer stunted at “browse”. I still had plenty of time before 8pm and I was sure all Ben needed was a firm handshake and some beer to set himself straight. Who mourns the loss of a Chartrine after all?

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post three

April 9th, 2008 by APK

———–

Three

My mind started to race around the problem at hand. How do you apologize to a beautiful woman whose nose you have just smashed while getting her to stop screaming and hitting you and still manage to ask her out?

I fumbled in my shoulder bag for a tissue with one hand while trying to fend off the rake of her perfectly manicured nails with the other. They were, her nails, lacquered in a wonderful blood red I noticed, and wondered if any of it was mine. Tissue found, I tried to back up and bumped into the door of the train. Waving the tissue in front of her, hoping she would take notice of it and calm down some proved futile as a solid swipe of her claws ripped it to shreds. The other passengers, as you might expect, were rather interested in what was going on. Some of them had even started to stand up as if to intervene, hopefully on my behalf but being honest with myself I knew that was not to be the case. Choosing the wise course of action I braced myself as the train slowed to a halt at 59th and stepped backwards onto the platform the second the doors slid open.

Sadly enough, she followed me out still swinging like Barry Bonds on amphetamines. She was, I felt, even more beautiful while angry. I needed to slow her down before she hurt someone. Me.

Looking at her as I took another step back I saw my course of action.

“Mam? EXCUSE ME!” I ventured, “You have blood running down onto your shirt.” She stopped swinging at me and looked down at herself in horror.

“You. Killed. My. Silk. Blouse.” She spat out like slow revolver fire.

“No, see, that was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit you and …” Her eyes held mine like twin light sabers wielded by the Dark Side. She was in no way buying what I was selling. “Look let me make it up to you.”

“You killed it. My best silk blouse. Dead. You. Dead. Silk no more. Ruined.”

“Uhh,” Why was she talking like this? “I’ll pay for it. Really, not a problem. How’s your nose?”

“My nose! You,” She reached tentatively up towards the bloodied offense and winced as her fingertips touched it, “Fuck! You Fuck! You fucking broke my fucking nose!” Well at least her language centers were firing on all cylinders again.

“No, it doesn’t look broken, really. Uhh here…” I hesitantly offered her another tissue from my bag. This one she took slowly as if deciding that I might, at any moment, decide to pop her one instead. She dabbed gently at her face with it and I took the chance to truly look at her.

Her wild black hair billowed off her head like a spider plant thinking about a change of venue even as it tried to slowly curl back on itself. The tentacled ends rested upon her shoulders framing a face that managed to encompass dull green eyes and a wide full mouth as well as a rather bloodied nose. She was about my height, 5′11″ give or take an inch, and draped in a lush blue silk shirt (now sporting a rather unattractive smattering of quickly drying blood) and jet black jeans tucked into a pair of black and blue polka dotted Doc Martens that came halfway up her calf. Simply stunning. I was mid-gawk when I heard her clear her throat. I looked back into her eyes with a snap.

“Thanks … for the tissue at least.” She stated calmly as she handed it back. What was I supposed to do with a bloody tissue exactly? Was there protocol for that move that I simply wasn’t aware of? I stood there for a second, holding the tissue with two fingers considering if it was better to gaily lob it onto the tracks or if it should find a new home in a pocket until I crossed paths with a trash can next.

I went for the pocket move and managed to get it crammed on in without really touching it, even though I was sure the inside of my pocket would now need a good wash. After shoving a tissue with her most precious bodily fluid into my jeans I felt I had the courage to take our relationship to the next, and non homicidal, level.

“I’m Thomas Klien, the fuck who killed your shirt,” I said lightly as I held out a hand (the one that hadn’t handled the bloodied tissue) towards her . She shook her head, as if unsure as to what her reaction should be anger or bemusement, and took my hand in hers with a polite shake.

“Michelle Christians, not very pleased to meet you honestly.”

“Oh, come on. Where would you have been without me to relived the tedium of your otherwise standard dull train ride?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. The witty banter won’t work. I’m sure it gets you pretty far a lot of days but today is not one of them Mister. No way.” Her lips twitched when she said it though, like it was one of the days the banter worked but she couldn’t just let me have the smile. I was going to have to work for it.

“You’re on to me. This is the only way I have left to meet women in this town, what can I say? First you bloody their face, then you buy them dinner.”

“I said,” She informed me while a hint of a smile formed on her face, “it won’t work. You do not get to fuck me up and ask me out in the same day. No chance, sorry.”

“Wait, before you go then, how much do I owe you for the shirt? I really do feel bad about that.”

“The blouse,” She emphasized the word blouse as if me calling it a shirt somehow made it a lesser being, “will cost you a hundred bucks.”

“Oh. Really? A hundred huh?”

“Cool and even, thanks.” Her hand laid open between us palm up, waiting for money to magically appear upon it bequeathed by righteousness. I found myself staring at her hand, waiting for the money to show up in it too and hoping that somehow it didn’t require my help to get there.

“If you give me somewhere to send the money …”

“Did I just step off a bus? Not only are you some kind of violent freak but you also stalk people?” I decided to imagine I saw a brief glint of humor on her face when she said that.

“What no I just don’t …”

“Oh so you’re a broke violent stalker?”

“Wait, no you see …”

“Jesus you are a piece of work aren’t you?”

“But I was only …”

“Trying to lure me into giving you my address so you could find me and kill me later. I know.”

“No! Stop interrupting me damn it! I don’t happen to have that much cash on me. I have maybe forty bucks, which you can have if you want, and I can tell you where to get a free copy of today’s Post. That’s about it, but I do want to pay you back. Alright?”

“Well I can’t stand here forever while you run and fetch it, but I’ll take the forty now as a down payment.” I dug in my back pocket and grabbed all the cash I had wadded up there, counting it and smoothing it out as I handed it to her. We found out I had been slightly wrong, possessing in fact forty-three dollars in all. She nodded at me and looked me slowly up and down from my thick black combat boots, past my fading blue jeans to slide her eyes across my “Free Vidicon” black T-shirt finally settling once again on my face with its short brown hair. I tried valiantly not to squirm as she took stock trying to guess what I would be worth if she sold me to white slavers. Finally she nodded again and smiled a true smile at me, disarming me utterly. She licked her lips, wetting them in preparation for speech.

“Give me some ID,” she told me, still smiling, “A driver’s license or something.”

“What? Why?”

“It has your address on it. I’ll call you tonight and we can meet somewhere public so you can give me the rest of the money.” Damn it, it made some sort of sense but I didn’t want to just hand over something like that.

“Well, I …”

“Oh you want me to trust you but you won’t trust me? I could start screaming and hitting you again until a cop came.” She had a point. I sighed and gave her my State non-Driver’s ID which she flipped over a few times and slid into her purse.

“I’ll call you around 8,” was all she said as she turned on her heels and stalked off down the platform towards the stairs for an uptown train probably to go home and change. Now I just had to find sixty bucks by 8pm.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post two

April 8th, 2008 by APK

———–

Two

I decided to take the easy route from the mid 40’s to Lincoln Center. Of course, the easy route involved heading up 6th to 51st to jig over to 7th and continue up the wind tunnel to 57th. Cut west on 57th to Broadway and head up to Columbus Circle. Loop the Circle, which feels like going about 4 blocks out of your way ever since they rebuilt it, and straight shot it up Broadway again to the 60’s. I jogged up the steps of the promenade to the fountain and sat a spell. I needed to do something, anything, to make up for this morning. The questions was simple. What? The answer was, as these things go, not so simple.

All of the standard City activities lay before me. Shopping, theatre, movies, both the various and the damned sundry sprawled out before me in a tapestry of the possible. Big fucking whoop. I mean let’s be honest here for a second. While I freely admit this is indeed the “City that never sleeps” as well as the one true civilized Mecca, there are days when it sucks. Hard. Cheap. Often. There are only so many times you can and do everything before everything becomes nothing. Once that happens well there’s only one thing left to do. See it all again, for the first time, adopt a tour group as your own and educate them even while you entertained them. All without the consent of their real tour guide.

I crossed my legs under me Indian style and lightly rested the backs of my hands on my knees. Forefinger and thumb formed circles and I pretended to attempt reaching Nirvana. Dave Ghrol wasn’t taking any calls that day though, so I opened my eyes and reconsidered what I was considering. Aww, fuck it. I had nothing better to do anyway.

I hopped off the fountain and thanked the small clutch of musicians gathered to my right, the lot of them clutching black cases near them and laughing too loudly while their eyes betrayed hate for each other. Must’ve been audition day. They turned to me as I thanked them for their time, obviously wondering what I was on and if I would consent to selling any to ease the stress levels. Who knew playing a cello could give you an ulcer? These people were not happy. I, on the other hand, felt positively jaunty. Having a purpose is a wonderful thing.

I ambled down to the 1/9 platform at 66th street and waited for my mighty steel chariot to come whisk me away to happiness. There was one of those women standing fairly close to me, her (fake) sun bleached hair in screwball half curls framing her large green tinted sunglasses. She stood, one hip cocked, in her light cotton ensemble pretending to read a book. The cotton waved slightly as she swayed under the power of her own pretense and she occasionally shifted her feet in and out of her stylish (last year) wicker and wood sandals. She turned, as these women always do, to make sure I could see what she was reading and be suitably impressed by her obvious brain power. I ached to tell her that one generally turns pages when reading Proust, but maybe she knew something I didn’t. It also, I felt, helped if you actually looked at the book. Pretty little delicate thing, I’m sure she was a hit in Kansas but around here there are three of these women on any given subway platform between the hours of 9am and 6pm. I think they tried to form a union once.

We waited, her and I, for the train. Waiting for a train in this town is something of an art. You have the women like her, spending their time trying to look like they mean something to everyone. The business people, men and women both in suits, who are always on the train in some small number no matter the time. Those guys work all the time and riding the train back and forth seems to be their great escape from the day, fairly lounging with papers and briefcases against pillars and posts. There are the couples then, the natives, who talk just loud enough you can’t hear them and even when you can they have developed a language of their own full of short cuts and half phrases. The tourists in their own little world of fantasy and wonderment, riding the train for a glimpse of “the real New York”. whatever that is. There are many many more riders of course, but that’s when the train showed up.

A blast of hot air heralded its arrival, pungent and fast. Noise was next, the roar of a thousand groaning virgins forcing itself into my ears and down my throat, it vibrated me to my core and shook me at the bone level. I saw the lights push out of the darkness of the tunnel as the front car charged down the track, already hissing and squealing as it shed momentum like water off a duck’s ass (or back or whatever, fucking ducks). It stopped and after a beat or two the doors opened with a show of force that would help drive home the concept of “Don’t block these.”, not that it really stopped anyone. A couple of people slid out onto the platform as we lonely few took their place on the car. It was still early enough that the train was standing room only, but late enough that there was actually enough space to both stand and inhale. I slid into the car and took a light hold on the pole near the door, keeping my body relaxed and letting my gaze slide over the other inhabitants who would be sharing this ride with me today. I only had 4 stops to go (59th, 50th, 42nd and exiting on 34th for those keeping score) so it wasn’t worth trying to pick out the person most likely to leave soon and hover to grab a seat.

The doors closed and the conductor cheerfully let us know “Please stab clear of the cloh fing floor! Next mop, 59th street, Colombo circuit.” or something to that effect. The doors slid home with the usual *Bee-boop* and I tensed for movement so as not to be jolted off balance. *Bee-boop* the doors opened again. “Please do not blob the whore!” shouted the conductor angrily. A *Be-boop* and I tensed again, but for no reason. *Be-boop*, “I said do not block the shore!” and then *SLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAM* as the conductor started to hit the open/close on the doors in rapid fire succession, in what had to be attempt to dismember. This really is fairly common. If you bruise them enough, they move out of your way. Nice life lesson that is, really. Apparently who or whatever had been blocking the doors finally moved/died/lost a limb and we shuddered forward suddenly, as I was tossed to the side unbraced and unprepared. I knocked into something with the back of my head, and turned around to see what it had been, since it had given way a bit unlike a steel pole would’ve. I was face to face with the most beautiful women I had seen in months, beautiful except for the fresh blood now running out of her nose. Fuck.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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Never Bite the Homeless (The Real and Untrue Adventures of Thomas Klien, Native) - post one

April 7th, 2008 by APK

—–

Sixth and Forty-third is a shitty place to work engineering. I speak from experience in that regard, though I probably shouldn’t be proud of that little tidbit of extraneous life. There I was, Thomas Klien, Native, having a fine and lush breakfast off a street vendor during the morning rush hour. As a professional Native of Manhattan I had much of no where more important to be right then, and what better way to start your day than with a steaming knish and a coke while watching people in bad suits scurry like ants.

I leaned against the side of a building and smiled to myself, even as a few badly dressed woman (Who were, I am sure, convinced they were the epitome of high fashion in their knock-off DKNY dresses with their street vendor fake silk scarves pinned delicately with fake Gucci lapel pins that all clashed with each other.) eyed me with an air of distain. Who was I, they asked themselves, to have the time to lounge while they had important places to be. I never considered a delay on the 1/9 to be important but to each their own. The knish was too hot to eat, so I merrily chewed away scalding the holy fuck out of my tongue and the roof of my mouth in between sips of Coke. That’s when I saw the guy coming down the street.

He was one of a million, with a beat down hand truck lugging a milk crate full of copies of that days Post. He was waving a paper in vain to passersby shouting “POST! TWENTY-FIVE CENTS!” over and over, as if someone would hear this and rush over to him full of angelic thanks for delivering the gift of shitty news. Every few feet the guy would stop rolling his hand truck and reach up to pat his well crushed and dismayed hat, making sure it didn’t fall off his dainty little head. He slowly, glacially in fact, made it up to where I was still leaning. I made a slight effort to lean in the manner of someone who wasn’t the type of person to want to lean and read and sought to avoid direct eye contact with him. Eye contact would lead to a sale for him and we both knew it. If I had been mobile I might have avoided it, but suddenly going mobile would ruin my quiet morning reverie.

Eventually he made it up to me and screamed his battle cry right in my face. I kept trying to look disinterested, adding an air of possible deafness. In retrospect I really should’ve known better. The performing arts attempt not only did me no good, but worked against me as he simply repeated himself louder while vaguely leaning in my direction. I found myself suddenly enraptured in the goings-on of a gaggle of pigeons (I’m not sure if that’s the proper term for a lot of pigeons but they sure looked gagglish to me.) and finished my knish, balling up the napkin and foil I had been holding it in. Taking my eyes off the friendly neighborhood mobile newsstand was also a mistake as it turns out. He took the second to shuffle everything sideways so that when he screamed again I certainly knew it. I also knew what he had devoured for breakfast himself that day (Scotch, cheap. Eggs, cheaper.) and the mix startled me enough that I cursed violently (At myself mostly, for managing to completely ignore this guy enough to let him get that close. I blame the caffeine for not taking effect fast enough.) and dropped the wad of foil and paper to the ground.

I gave him my best “what the fuck is your basic genetic defect” glare and waited for him to move on, now sure I had won this round. He smiled at me and said softly “Hey buddy, wanna Post? It’s today’s.” Damn it, damn it, fine! I forked over a quarter and sighed, tucked the paper under an arm and starting to turn away even as he started to resume his forward movement away from me. He shuffled forward and yanked the cart behind him and suddenly let out a yell even as I turned to see the cart fold in on itself, a lone wheel spinning away into the street. I was torn between an urge to look like a good citizen and help him right his crap and just walking away to find somewhere else to ponder the meaning of life. I had just decided to do the smart thing and leave him when he lifted the cart a bit to try and get it semi-stable and saw the wad of foil and paper.

“You dropped this! That’s why my truck broke! You owe me a new truck, fucker!” He bellowed at me in rage. I think I goggled at him disbelievingly but it may have been a simpler look of astonishment, the court is still out on that.

“Yeah I dropped it, but if a small wad of fucking tin foil could take the wheel off your cart it would have to have the relative fucking density of titanium!” I delivered with all the proper aplomb required. He was, of course, having none of it and kept screaming. I decided that perhaps helping him right his cart would be the proper response to settle the matter and shut him the hell up as we were now drawing a crowd. Alright two skater punks, a fat guy in a dirty t-shirt and one ancient lady that could have passed for Yoda’s grandmother might not really count as a crowd I admit, but they were watching.

I bent to help him, and he pointed into the street at wheel were it lay forlornly in the gutter. Sighing I trudged over and grabbed it with as few fingers as possible, carrying it back to him. Glaring, he took it from me with an swipe of hand and proceeded to try to reattach it to it’s axle. I sighed deep in my chest and stood waiting. Protocol at this point required me to stand there and look like I really wanted to help him, and we both knew it. By now, sensing there would be no fight everyone had wandered back to their lives except Yoda’s grandmother. Eventually my favorite news merchant looked up at me again and grunted while gesturing, a clear and true sign he wanted help with this engineering problem.

Fine. Fine! Fine. I squatted down to take a shot at the small problem in front of me. The axle was bent and smushed so that the wheel wouldn’t stay even if it could somehow be forced over the bent section. I looked at him and shrugged. He looked at me and grunted. We started miming back and forth about the problem inherent in tool-less metal working. We were both getting madder as time went on, and slowly the charades got fast and more abrupt as the grunts got even more sinister.

So there we were, both starting to shout. My day was shot, his hand truck was shot. I threw my hands up in the air and stood up. He joined me back in the realm of the recently vertical and started waving his arms as incoherent sounds came out of his mouth. This was getting worse and worse so I hung my head and asked him how many papers he had on him. He stumbled over his most recent incoherent indignity and looked down at the box of papers. I saw his lips move as he tried to count.

Finally he looked back at me and gave me the grand total of fifty. I dug into my pocket and started counting off the $12.50 needed to just buy the papers off him en masse. Whatever it took to shut this guy up and be able to get on with my life was going to be attempted by then. He smiled at me and took the money, bent over and dumped the papers out of the crate which he picked up. He shambled off into the mists carrying the crate and pulling a broken cart wobbling dangerously even as it was scraping the broken axle along the sidewalk. I looked down at my recent investment and kicked the pile where it lay. That would teach it.

It felt good, kicking that damnable pile of papers, so I did it again. Then again. Then I started to scream and kick at the pile faster. That’s when the cops came and tried to get me to go to a shelter. Sighing I walked off towards Lincoln Center in search of something to do that would make up for the morning so far. I spared a backwards glance towards my oddly-gotten gains, now ripped and mulched slightly and blowing in a light breeze. Yoda’s grandmother was bending ponderously down to retrieve what was, for her, a free paper. Let her have it. Someone would have a decent morning’s entertainment out of all this at least. Me? I needed a second knish and coke, and maybe a brain hemorrhage on the side. Christ, I love this town.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.

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