this will be an ongoing communique of the various homeless denizens I encounter in Honolulu.
Blackfoot and Friends, pt1 - Are YOU an American?
Every city has its bums - it's a shameful part of the economic system we reside in, but an unfortunate truth that we just have to accept anyway. The haves and the have nots, and the have not so bads that i'm sleeping in a park underneath a garbage bag. Waikiki, though, seems an island mecca for them.
At first, I thought this one was relatively normal. He wears scrubs, I thought. Sure, he's a little dishevelled, but that'll happen after a 12-hour shift. True, he does wear medical scrubs, not to mention clothes that don't immediately reveal his true identity as a crazy homeless guy. But conversation is where this one happens.
He'd been coming into the coffeeshop for a sample-cup of coffee, a favorite of the bums and druggies that make up our 5:30-5:35am rush. On the particular day, though, he came in and wanted a small cup of iced tea, which I offered to him. He took it, drank it, and then stood perfectly motionless, staring at a cup of pens.
After a moment I asked, "So... what're ya looking at?"
"Your #2 pencil with the [unintelligible] grip. And a chalk pen. What's a chalk pen?"
I kept my gaze firmly on him. He was dangerously close to the TIP JAR, which is the magical jar that beer eventually comes from. I pointed behind me.
"They're used to draw all these signs." Fantastic, I thought. Just great. He's going to make a lunge at the cash and I'm going to have to hop this counter and beat him to death for $8 in quarters.
His eyes slowly drifted up to look at the chalk-pen drawings. I could see the bright red broken blood vessel in his right eye. Made the crazy really sparkle in him.
"They look really good." A pause. "Did an American write those?"
RED ALERT, ALARM ALARM ALARM my brain is screaming at me. His eyes come back down to me.
"As far as I know, yeah," I replied. "Since everyone who works here is American."
He took a step back, his eyes locked with mine.
"Good," he said. "One more thing." Another pause.
"Are YOU an American?"
I smirked, as I often have to do when confronted with these people. "Last time I checked, yeah," I replied. He kept his eyes on me.
"I thought so," he said. Turned, and walked away.
I'm considering asking him if he's an American the next time I see him, but that brings me dangerously close to becoming one of them... Aside from the whole "sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk" thing.
As an aside, a coworker had an interesting run-in with him as well, I was told. This was the apparent exchange -
"Hey, you're cute, want to come back to my place?"
"No, my husband wouldn't like that."
"Oh, that's okay. I actually don't have a PLACE. I live on the street. Want to hang out?"
Humorous.
Posted in
Submitted by James on July 9, 2008 - 8:50pm.