Portugal 6 || Romania 6 || Australia 2 || Japan 2
My "page views" this past week (above). People in France continue to read...
- 35 Dollar Friday
- Harold Hates Tuna And Pumpkin
- Late Arrivals At Lilly Pad Persist
Last night's all day bus pass was stamped with "10:40 PM," which means that I had gotten off the trolley at Royal Street about 10 minutes later; and returned the icy stares of the trolley stop skeezers.
They are a couple of older black men who "work" that spot; sitting there, drinking beer off of money that they manage to skeeze off tourists, using the lie of: "I'm trying to get home," and being well positioned to skeeze cigarettes off of those who pouncing upon their first opportunity to light up, after their trolley ride.
I must have played from about 11:10 PM until 1:10 AM. The 17 bucks per hour average, being maintained.
"I Just Bought This One."
I have settled upon a course of action to take with cigarette skeezers, which I have put into play once already, with the result that I came away from the experience without having incurred any anger, or outrage, at the "nerve" of skeezers, in general.
Saying: "I only have a couple left," is not advisable because it opens the door for the response of: "Well, I only want one..." exposing a glimpse into the soul of the kind of person who would unflinchingly take a man's last cigarette. This can be disturbing and can mar an otherwise great mood.
And, the smart-ass answers, like: "Shucks, I'm all out of free ones," or "No, only 20 came in this pack; no extras, sorry," or "Yeah, I have a cigarette, I smoke! I make sure I have cigarettes, by setting aside some of the money I make, so as to meet the responsibility; I'm not going to go around begging total strangers for them like a dog by a dinner table!" are just going to roil a lot of skeezers up, exposing one to unnecessary danger.
Yesterday afternoon, I went out to the trolley stop to wait for the car headed towards the GNC and the Uxi Duxi. There was a black man standing across the street near the Whitney Bank. He crossed the street and headed towards me as soon as I had lit up.
"Can I get one of them off you?" he asked -better than "Give me a cigarette," but still a black man wanting something for free at the expense of a white man, whom he believes has money and cigarettes supplied to him because of the color of his skin.
"I just bought this one," I said.
"Who'd you buy it from?" he kind of mumbled.
At first I thought that he was doubting that I had just bought it, since there was nobody in sight from whom I could have "just" gotten it.
"I bought it last night, with the rest of the pack that I have. These are almost 8 bucks a pack," I added, showing him the American Spirit box.
"I'm trying to buy one, myself," he then ventured. Try to get things for free, and only as a last resort, offer to pay your way, I get it. I ought to introduce this guy to Travis Blain, they would make a nice couple.
"How, much you want for one?"
"Just 50 cents, which is about what I pay for each one. I'm not trying to get over on anyone; It's just that I have 20 people asking me for one out of every pack I open; that doesn't even leave one for me..."
This seemed to satisfy the guy, who then handed me 2 quarters.
He lit up, and then we actually had a civil conversation.
He said that he used to play percussion in a Reggae band, and even dropped a few vaguely familiar sounding names, after I mentioned that I was a street musician (who never knows where his next cigarette is coming from) and I went away, not disgusted or angry.
The Story I Told The Guy
I had told him the story of how I once had to walk 28 miles in Jacksonville, Florida, and had to get across the Buckman Bridge, a 3.7 mile span that it was illegal to walk across.
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| 3.7/28ths Of My Journey |
As I got nearer to the bridge, I wondered if I would be able to make it across without being arrested and brought right back to Green Cove Springs, the city I had embarked from.
A small white car materialized to my left, the passenger door having been pushed open, as an offer of a ride.
There was a Jamaican looking guy behind the wheel, and "Could You Be Loved," by Bob Marley emanated from within.
He brought me across the bridge.
That is also the song that Tanya and Dorise were playing, when I first encountered them on Royal Street, and is a riff that often plays in my head when I think of that diminutive Taiwanese violinist.
The guy at the trolley stop said that he was on his way to cash his check (it was the first of the month, after all) and would afterwards buy himself a pack of smokes. I wondered if he would plunk down the extra couple bucks for American Spirits, after having sampled one.
Probably not; it would be Kool cigarettes for him; a "black culture" thing, as if the solidarity that they strive for, in fighting "the power," extends to a common brand of cigarettes. It used to be Newport; but the times, and the African American mindset, are a-changing, I guess.
So, I think I can go forward with the not exact lie of "I just bought this one," as my buffer against wanton skeezing that might bring me to ruin if unchecked.
The Present
It is now a bit after 8 PM, on this Saturday night. Soon, it will be time to start walking back to the apartment to grab my gear and try to be on the 9:12 PM trolley; just like old times.
Tuna And Pumpkin Disaster
Last night, I had a can of "premium" cat food, which I had paid the handsome sum of $1.39, plus tax for, at the Jefferson Feed store.
It was tuna and pumpkin flavored.
Harold was waiting for me, posted at a spot from where he can see me as soon as I emerge from the Sacred Heart lobby.
He should have been hungry, as it had been a while since he had eaten.
I put a bed of dry food on his plate, and then covered most of it with the premium tuna and pumpkin flavored food. I also put what was left of whatever he had eaten the night before -about a tablespoon full- on the same plate.
I knew something was wrong after he sniffed the tuna and pumpkin, then sniffed the leftover stuff, without eating any of either.
He instead walked a few feet over to by the refrigerator, where he usually stands, "patiently meowing," as I open cans, rinse dishes and prepare his plate.
I note the frequency, timbre, tone and urgency level of his meows, to gauge how much to load onto his dish.
It was the "do you have anything else?" meow that issued forth from him.
Luckily, I did have the last can of Nine Lives brand, beef in gravy. which I put on a separate dish, and which he ate. At some point during the night, he returned to the first dish, scattered the tuna and pumpkin food onto the floor around it, and ate the dry food that had been underneath.
It is already 9:40 PM. I had better go...
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