Their Final Coupe

The End Of Days 
I woke up thinking that this would be my last day in Mobile, unless I decided to come back some day. This would only be the case should I decide that the new place was actually worse than Mobile. *sound of people giggling

I'll Tell You Where You Can Put That Egg!

Plot Hatched Against Me
Then, the city's demons threw everything at me which they could, in a last-ditch attempt to destroy me, while it still had time.
I couldn't go to the Presbyterian to get a hard boiled egg, because I have been barred from there. The barring offence occured a couple mornings ago.

They were handing out slices of bread, scooping out peaches and grits, and of course, dealing hard boiled eggs, that fateful morning.
Standing by the coffee pot was a street person who has somehow found a job, helping out around the church, in exchange for, I don't know what.

He is a tall black guy with a shaved head, and has been there for at least as long as I have been going to The Coffee Club.


He is the guy responsible for telling everyone to leave at a specified time, and the one who wipes down the tables, after they do so. He always seems to be in a rush to get everyone to leave in a timely manner, as if he is pressed for time and must wipe down the tables, put up the chairs, mop the floor and then hurry off to some important engaugement.

Often, I am one of the last stragglers, because I wait for the line of people to finish pushing and shoving and complaining about the bread or the egg that they got for free, before moving to their tables, which they have marked as "their territory" by leaving a hat or some other object sitting upon it. I then walk up casually, get my egg and then sit off in the corner, on a set of steps instead of at a table.
This deprives them the satisfaction of saying "Someone's sitting there," at every spot that I might attempt to sit at. It gives the impression that I am aloof and anti-social; a correct impression, for once, out of their arsenal of them.

So, on this particular morning, the tall black guy with the shaved head was entrusted with the responsibility of handing out a bag of chips to everyone, to complement the egg breakfast, which he did; to everyone except myself. When I got to his station, he pulled the bag of chips back, holding them away from me and stood there looking at me.


I didn't really even want the chips. I mumbled something to the effect of "Oh, you only give them to who you want to, I guess."
I sat down and ate the rest of the breakfast, and as I did, I started thinking about the unfairness of his actions. Before I left, I went to the guy who looked like he could be in charge; the guy spooning out the grits; and complained.

He assumed a demeanor very similar to the guy who wouldn't give me a bag of chips, and basically asked me what I expected him to do about it, claiming to have no authority in the matter, and then diverted his attention, trying to ignore me.
I was hung over, and knew that I was leaving Mobile soon, and so I tried a little experiment.
"I could shoot the guy," I said.
The guy who spoons out the grits suddenly snapped to life and said "What did you say? Get out, and don't come back!"

The bums must have all been inside, getting their eggs
when this picture was taken....

He didn't have the authority to tell the part time worker to please give me a bag of chips, like he did everyone else, but he now had the authority to bar me from The Coffee Club.
I had always had a sneaky suspicion that the motives of The Government Street Presbyterian Church, were not spawned by a love of the homeless, and a willingness to serve them in the name of God, but rather, they probably recieve some kind of tax deduction, or a grant from some agency.
I couldn't resist shaking the bush to see what flew out.


Typical of a lot of "Christians." They wouldn't recognize Jesus Christ if he walked up to them on the street.

So, I didn't go in there for breakfast, obviously.
Their food isn't healthy for me to consume, given the amount of margerine that they use, and the fact that eggs arent' the best things for me, if I'm trying to be the best that I can be. This is another (subconscious) reason that I think I did what I did; to protect myself from myself and keep from going in there.


I went to Save-A-Lot, instead and had some bananas and yogurt and an energy drink.

A bum, whom I haven't seen in a while (since the last time he begged me), asked me for a couple dollars out front.


I told him "I do what I can to help the homeless, but I'm way over budget this month," and walked off.
Why he didn't instead ask any of the people who were getting out of cars and wearing nice clothes for a couple dollars, is beyond me, unless it has to do with the fact that one of them might be an undercover cop and arrest him for panhandling.

Then, it was to the library, to try, once again, to meet Wilma, who had said she might have some clothes and toiletries and even cigarettes to give me. She wasn't there. I guess that was karma coming back to me for refusing the bum his beer money. The bum would say that was exactly what it was.

So, I am faced with the choice of staying over one more day, hoping to get the stuff, or hopping the train to New Orleans.


I then went to Wings Of Life to eat.


They ran out of rice on the guy in front of me in line, and tried to compensate by giving me more beans, which I didn't want to eat. The sermon before the meal was about loving "your neighbor as yourself."

I can't do it right now. I'm sorry, but I hate the guts of half of those people in there. They yell "amen" and "hallelujiah" and then are pieces of crap to everyone around them, the rest of the day. The God I love would overturn the tables and smear them all with rice and beans.

What Did I Do To Warrant This?

I then went to the Federal Building to ask them to remove the warrant, which is still in the computer for the charges which were dismissed against me, a month ago.



I couldn't find a picture, but the building kind of looked like this



It showed up the last time I was harrassed by the local cops.
They put me in the back of their cruiser that time, and stood around making wisecracks and flirting with the women who walked by for 45 minutes, before letting me out, uncuffing me; and with totally changed attitudes, telling me that the warrant was "inactive." They told me that I should do something about removing it from the computer, or I would face the same ordeal anytime or anywhere the cops ran my ID.

At the Federal building, the security woman who "mans" the metal detectors, and who makes a little over minimum wage, and who has job security working for the government was her usual arrogant self.


I told her that I wanted to speak with someone at the Marshall's Office.


She wanted to know "who?."


I told her that I didn't know "who," but was hoping that the Marshall's Office could direct me to the right person to help me with my situation.


She told me that I had to be more specific. Some things are not your business, peon!


Knowing that the warrant was inactive and wanting to see her reaction, I said "I want to ask them to please remove the federal fugitive warrant which is upon me nationwide, so I don't keep getting arrested."


I could visibly see the blood drain from her face.

"I'm going to have to see your ID."
Of course you are going to have to.
Here we go...

She took my ID (the temporary paper one, good for another 6 days) and said "I'll be right back."


She was soon "right back" with another security guy, a white haired guy, (close to that government pension) who was eyeing me with interest.


They got on their radio's and talked to the Marshall's Office. The female officer put her walkie-talkie down on the desk in front of her and then, thinking better of it, moved it to the other end of the desk, out of my reach, as if I might turn it into a weapon against her if I had to make an escape.


I knew that they were thinking: "We don't care if the warrant is in the computer by mistake or not; if it exists, then the Marshalls have to make an arrest and let a judge sort it out." I could see it in their faces. They were practically drooling in anticipation of seeing this smart-assed guitar player led away in cuffs -probably had a smart remark prepared for the moment the cuffs snapped shut, like "Thanks for stopping by, come again! Hee Hee Hee!"


Then, a request came from upstairs for my name, date of birth and social security number. I knew that this was persuant to their check upon me, which would probably yield the same warrant.


In the meantime, the two security people were doing their best to talk about an earthquake and other things, and not try to tip me off that I might be in danger of being arrested right where I stood. I didn't know if the marshalls were whispering "Keep him there, stall him!" or what. I wanted to test them by saying that I was going to step outside and smoke a cigarette, to see if they said "You'd better stay here and wait (in case they come out of the elevator presently. They're pressed for time, very busy, they are...)"

The elevator opened, and out stepped two Marshalls, wearing sidearms and tasers. I recognised one of them from my arrest two months ago.


They played it off just like it was going to be an arrest. "Mr. McKenna," said the one whom I recognised. "Step over this way. Come around the metal detector. Step through this door!"


I walked around the metal detector towards them.


To the security officers: "Does he have all his personal belongings on him?" This to infer that we might be going "somewhere."


The female officer told him that I had all my personal stuff, and the white haired one took advantage of his golden opportunity to make some kind of smart remark, thinking that I was going to jail; something like "But I was only here to get a check!" (which was what I was there to do the previous time, and which he thought was the reimbursement for time spent falsely imprisoned, which people who have high paying jobs get if they are held on a charge which is later dismissed. My days arent worth the same as those kind of people, economically. I was just picking up the balance of my jail account, about 57 bucks, but the white haired guard didn't know, and I kept him in the dark. I think it angered him to think that I had gotten over on the government).


After being led into the foyer, the marshall told me that I had warrants in North Corolina and in Florida. I already knew about them, and knew that those counties wouldn't extridite. That would bring me back into their lives. I knew that he knew too, but he was doing a good job of acting like he was still about to bust me. He was posturing himself as if ready to reach for his handcuffs and tell me to put my hands behind my back.


"There's no federal warrant for you, though." (In a rare show of efficiency, it must have been deleted after it was found to be inactive).


So, on the eve of my third attempted departure from Mobile, it looked like I was going to be shanghied a third time.
I resisted the urge to thumb my nose at the security people as I walked out.

Then, I went to the Licence Commision to check upon my ID which was mailed to my friends and subsequently returned to the Licence Commision. They weren't there. They don't work on Tuesdays. Of course, they don't work on Tuesdays. I wasn't surprised.

Then I made my way past the scowling faces, the lame, disabled hobblers with their canes, the bums staring with somebody please help me looks on their faces, more scowling faces (I even tried forcing a smile, thinking that I might just be getting back what I was putting out, only to see expressions that evinced resentment at seeing me appear to be happy)

And now, I once again decide wheather to stay or go. I still have a backpack and a guitar, but the demons of Mobile are plotting their last coupe...the guitar and backpack would be the icing on the cake...