You Can't Turn Back The Clock; But You Can Rewind It

Last night, I was considering going to Starbucks to sell some coffee off of my gift card, so that I would have a couple of bucks in my pocket, and feel better about taking time off from street playing, to go to church, instead.
I called Jeff The Potter and told him of my dilemma. He mentioned eating, and possibly washing clothes, and that his youngest daughter, Lilly* was not feeling well, and wouldn't be going along with them.
I decided to go to church, but asked him if we could stop at Starbucks quickly, where I would buy a cup of coffee, and, if there were any people in line with me, I would just as quickly try to get some cash.  
I then went to Save-A-Lot to get my guitar and my bag.
There was a large black lady with a little boy just emerging from the store who were rearranging the items in their cart. On the sidewalk under their cart was a dime and two pennies.
I reached down and picked up the 12 cents and asked the lady if she had dropped it.
"No," she replied.
"Well, now I have a dollar and 61 cents!," I said, adding .12 plus 1.49 in my head, and started into the store.
The boy said "Excuse me, mister." I returned outside and the lady handed me two dollars. I then had the $3.62, which made me feel more comfortable about taking the night off to go to church; this being about the right amount for a pack of cigarettes, but I wasn't admitting to myself, even, that this was my source of "comfort."
Jeff The Potter arrived, and told me that he was in a hurry because he had to go to a certain "paper store" and exchange some colored paper which was not colored in hues which were to the liking of his art students.
I told him that it wasn't important, anymore, to stop at Starbucks; I would survive.
The church service was "good," (for lack of a better word); though, I became absorbed in reading my study bible, (especially the section about Paul writing Philippians while in prison for two years), during the sermon.
Confidence Shaken
I was pondering the open mic night at Serda's, which I usually go to after the service, and wondering why my confidence level has waned in recent weeks, and I have become skeptical about people liking my songs. Sometimes their applause seems hollow or mocking or patronizing, or any combination of the three, with "non existent" running a close second.
I looked around the congregation and pictured them as the audience at Serda's and felt even more unsure of my prospects of entertaining an audience with "The Man Who Couldn't Decide What Flavor He Wanted," or "The Carcass Song." I wished I could do Gospel music, but do it in a way that wouldn't make me feel like I was selling out, or trying to get "brownie points" from the Lord, or trying to put myself on a pedestal and exalt my "holiness" in front of Man. In short, I would want it to be as good, if not better, than what I am already doing.
This has become a recurring "Wednesday Night Dilemma."
The sermon ended. I came out of my daydream.
The pastor prayed for us all to be more "confident" (honest to God).
Night Of The Jackal
It was raining "cats and dogs" after the service.
Jeff dropped me off at the trolley spot. I planned upon ducking under and waiting to see if the rain abated while the open mic was still in progress at Serda's.
Soon, I decided to leave all my stuff under cover and walk up to the Shell, to get a beer, a morning energy drink and a middle-of-the-night-waking-up thirsty drink.
There was a large black man in a camouflaged jacket standing in a spot which is frequented by beggars. It is out of sight of the cashier on duty, but within begging distance of the customers.
I came out of the store with my 3 drinks in a bag, and went over by his "begging post" to pop open my beer, out of sight of the cashier and out of the rain.
He greeted me with affected friendliness. His mouth smiled but his eyes looked like he was thinking of eating me.
"Let me drink one with you," he said, thinking that the other two drinks in my bag were two more beers.
I told him otherwise. I said that I was drinking the beer there in case one was not satisfying enough. I could easily pop back into the store for another.
He asked once more to drink one "with" me.
I re informed him of what was in my bag, and even showed him the two beverages.
"You said you might go in and get another one."
"I've decided not to"
I walked away shaking my head in amazement over how everything you say to a (possibly drug-addicted) beggar can, and will, be used against you.
The rain had lessened, by the time I got to the trolley spot. I grabbed my guitar and started walking towards Serda's. I was craving a cigarette.
Even if I didn't play, there would be people there who would either sell me one for a quarter, or give me one; as a way of supporting a struggling musician.
I was almost to Cathedral Park when I noticed the beggar following me.
He was gaining on me, leading me to think that he was trying to do just that.
He probably reasoned that, since I mentioned getting a second beer, I had at least 98 cents on me; (blood in the water); plus, I had my guitar on my back, and it was a dark, rainy night with hardly a soul on the street. Only those desperate for a cigarette and their ilk were out.
I used a subterfuge of cutting diagonally through Cathedral Park, making it appear as if I might be going towards Government Street. Then, I waited until I estimated his arrival at the corner of the park, to see if he would follow my unorthodox route. He was standing motionless, looking in my direction.
I cut through the alley behind the Saenger Theater (the one which I wrote a paper about), and came out the other end and onto Dauphin Street, just as the beggar was passing by. He said something unintelligible to me, with a scowl on his lips, matching his eyes. His whole expression was now that of a jackal which hadn't eaten in three weeks.
When I passed him further along, he was standing over a middle aged man saying (or rather barking) into his face: "I ain't got no cash, NO CASH!!"
I went along and picked the ashtray at the tattoo shop. It was replete with unsmoked tobacco. It sits back off the street a ways, in a foyer which is decorated with scary, tattoo shop-style trimmings; there are always motorcycles parked in front; and the street people leave their ashtray alone. Except for myself.
Now that I had plenty of tobacco, and it was still raining, and the large black beggar was still at large, I opted to go to Serda's.
It was 10 pm. when I got there. Someone with hair the size of a beach ball was singing on the stage, his accompaniment of drums, bass and keyboard being supplied by a boom box.
I went inside and was greeted warmly by the artist formerly known as the girl in the fishnet stockings, who smiled and said "Hi."
Jimmy Lee and I spoke briefly. I told him of the one component of my being there; to give the slip to "The Jackal," who I described.
The stage was pretty much booked up for the night at that point.
I waited a bit for the rain to let up, and then walked down to the Exxon, for the second beer, which I drank in a spot sheltered from the rain and from where I could see a Jackal approaching a way's off.
I made it back to the trolley without being eaten and then listened to AM radio and thought about what it means to "turn from your sins," as smoked the last of my tobacco, realized that I was almost broke, and that the lingerie catalog which I left at the other sleeping spot, was surely underwater by then...
Island Thyme
This morning, I woke up, drank the morning energy drink and then went to McDonalds to use their hand dryer to dry out my guitar case, thinking as I did that the case wouldn't have been half as wet, if I hadn't felt it necessary to go out in the rain in pursuit of cigarettes.
A guy came out of the stall and handed me a tin of chewing tobacco, which he said someone had left in there.
It is cold outside. Tonight is the open mic at Island Thyme. I have 4 hours to come up with a song.