The Virus Song

This is fresh news, above, by the way, and it ties into the post.
I Get The Bag of Coffee
I got the bag of coffee from the only Starbucks open in the city.

I had arrived yesterday, when a white lady named Kayla told me that she would be working today, and that I could just call from outside the store and we could work out the sale of the one pound bag of freshly ground coffee.

It is my guess that Kayla is the manager and that she might have an interest in making even just one more sale during this downturn in the economy.

And, it is my guess that the portly African American girl, who might have been 20 years old was not, who cracked the door open about a foot and informed me "We're only selling things through the mobile app and through the drive through."


Before I could even begin to tell her about my conversation with Kayla, she rebuffed me by repeating, like a parrot, the same phrase, before closing and locking the door.

So, I looked into the store and tried to make sign language quality signals in order to tell them -it was another heavy set black girl and a skinny white guy who was a bit tan skinned like a Mediterranean- that, when I called the number that comes up on Google, I got the "person hasn't set up a voice mail account" message and then am disconnected.
I was apparently unable to do this using hand signals.

At one point the white guy approached the door and was perhaps about to open it, but right about then, I had given up and decided to try to communicate to them through the drive through.

There was total silence for about ten seconds before I said into the speaker: "Hey, I know I'm not supposed to go to the drive through on a bike, but..."
And then the voice of the Mediterranean looking guy came through the speaker and took my order. He even ground the coffee for me.

Once I was at the window, I encountered an icy hostility from the two black ladies.

One of them took my gift cards from me and checked the balance, because I told her I wasn't sure how much was on each of two cards. She then handed me back the cards.

I started to make idle talk about how they were the only Starbucks open, when I was cut off again and asked what it was I was "getting."

Why, that bag of freshly ground coffee that's sitting right by your elbow on the shelf that wasn't there a minute ago....

I told her that Kayla had told me she was going to be there today.
She said that Kayla might have worked in the morning and then gone home; she wasn't sure, though.

I left there thinking that the white guy who had actually helped me to purchase the bag of coffee (a $16 item) was ahead of the curve, so to speak.

Of course, I am going to fire off an e-mail to Starbucks headquarters and commend the guy, and Kayla and to give them a brief essay about the work culture of the others, who really give off the vibe that they feel like their job might require them to serve white customers in some capacity, but nowhere in the description is it implicit that they have to smile or be nice, and that after dispatching whatever duties are required of them can stand there and stare at the white customer and refuse to even acknowledge anything the customer might say in the way of friendly conversation.

I Play At "Piss Pass"

But, then, on the way back home, I noticed that the bridge at Clairborne and Canal Streets had been totally cleared of homeless people, as shown in the news clip above.

There wasn't even anyone at the spot where the concrete is worn smooth by the ever presence of a sign flier.

The homeless had been shunted to a hotel nearby and none had even stuck around to beg, it appeared.

So, I got home and quickly grabbed my gear, changed a string, tuned up and headed for that very spot.

I quickly learned a few things.

One, I figured out from how people would roll their windows down to listen to me, but wouldn't keep them down very long.

I was singing:

"The virus...began when a bat bit Miley Cyrus...
And then she kissed Selena Gomez, and put her tongue in her mouth
and began to spread it north and south...
The virus...started when a bat bit Miley Cyrus...etc."

To a shuffle beat,
And, I got a couple half smiles and a dollar and a bag that wound up to have Oreo Cookies in two flavors, and a half a pound cake or something that also had a ton of sugar it it.

Then, it hit me (no pun intended).

The stench of The Homeless was still emanating from under the bridge, having been freshly stirred up, as a matter of fact, in their hasty exodus just hours earlier; headed for the hotel.

"A spot's reputation precedes it..." -me

I was upwind from it.

So were the motorists, who were rolling their windows back up after just a few seconds. It must have smelled to them like the corona virus itself blowing into their cars. It would be easy for them to imagine the whole tent community as having been infected by each other.

This is what I was telling the second guy who gave me anything, a dollar. He was a 20 something Jamaican guy who had gold front teeth. He had pulled his car about 12 feet past me and had asked: "Where's the music?"

I had my back turned and was tuning up.

He countered that the virus came here during Mardi Gras, because people came here from all over the world. And, it would have no more chance of being clustered under the bridge than anywhere else; despite the odor.

That particular bridge, which I have ridden past countless times, I had given the nickname to of: "Piss Pass," for a while, because of that stench; and I later upgraded, I believe, the legend for that stretch to The Gallway.

After figuring that out, I looked across to the other side of the bridge. The sinking sun had it awash in a warm yellow light.

I packed up and quickly went to the other side. It was like night and day.

The sun in my face seemed to brighten my outlook, and to help me to pray it, and I got another dollar and more food.

Peace, Love And Mr. T

A guy and a girl who looked to be in their early twenties stopped and offered me a burrito, which they guaranteed was going to be delicious.

When I hesitated, fumbling for the words to tell them that I was allergic to soy (and that I didn't want to play Russian roulette with a burrito) I heard the girl say: "Oh, I understand!"

And then they placed the burrito down on the sidewalk about 6 feet from me.
"The six foot rule, I understand," she said.

She then told me that she would back off and "You can come and get it..."
That was so endearing that I no longer had the heart to reject it. It was more important to me to walk up to them to assure them that I wasn't going to be afraid of any disease.

I can remember hugging a person who had contracted A.I.D.S. back when I was in college in '86 when that disease was believed to be like leprosy on steroids and transmittable through things like hugs.

I got home and could not resist a few of the lemon flavored Oreos.

Then, I remembered the burrito, wrapped in tin foil upon which someone had drawn the symbols of the peace sign, a heart shape and capital letter "A" with a circle drawn around it.

There were no words, but I imagine it all meant peace, love and, let's never forget The A Team, with Mr. T, and all...

The Burrito Sucks Me In

The burrito was just plain heavy, which made it irresistible.
As I held it in my hands, I realized that I could gain back maybe 2 of the pounds that I have surely lost in the past week in one fell swoop, by eating it.

It was incredibly delicious with salsa type fresh onions and tomato cubes and rice and maybe chicken and...mayonnaise.

I kept putting it back in the microwave for 9 seconds here, another 11 there until the cheese inside had become molten, and I polished it off.

All I could think about in the bliss of eating it was the kid that I had gotten pissed off at the day before, whom Bobby had described as being messed up in the head and, in particular, a binge eater.

The Mentally Ill Milennial Skeezer Of Sacred Heart

The kid has only been at Sacred Heart a couple months and had skeezed me the first time I ever saw him. He had asked me if I had something to eat, some "little" thing.

He had prefaced it by asking me if he could "ask a favor," of me, which had immediately put me in the mind of being pitched by a skeezer.

I have heard that from at least a couple dozen various sorts who, to a man asked me to do them the favor of giving them money. It must be believed that framing it as a favor works well as a skeezing approach.


He is apparently living here because of having been deemed mentally disabled by some authority and looks to be no more than 20 years old.

He was in the lobby and had started to follow me as I passed through it.
I figured that he wanted to worm his way into Bobby's apartment, no doubt to try to skeeze him for something -he was going to walk behind me so he would be there when Bobby opened the door; something he might not have been doing for the kid, who looks like he has never had a haircut but has kept it in control by periodically ripping clumps of it out of his head.

He has a terrible complexion, probably because of the binge eating.

But, I had been rude to him. I was already sweating the stress of having to go out and play on the very spots where all the bums that I have been deriding are always begging.

I thought it was going to feel like this great poetic justice thing or of karma coming home to roost or something.

But, after Bobby called the kid a binge eater, I told him that he might just be the norm for a milennial.

Maybe one of the traits of their generation.

But, it was him that I was thinking about as the burrito wallowed in my mouth.

I wondered if, by being rude to him, I had taken upon myself some of his karma.

Because, I have been accumulating tons of apples and was well into a multi day cleanse, which had me in a calm state of mind, despite not having figured out the way to make money.

So, what I learned was that the reputation of a spot precedes it, and I felt like I was paying for the sins of every rude, strung out skeezer who ever used the place as a latrine and a place to sleep, and, by busking there, I was associating with them, in a way.

I noticed a lot of black men turning their own music up louder rather than turning down so they could hear me.

I have decided to next try it at a more middle class white location. The corner nearby where a few of my neighbors are always flying their signs would a a step in that direction.

I will be brainstorming upon places where the volume would be low enough, and the foot traffic high enough during these times.

I really seem to have all the materials in hand to go on an extended apple cleanse diet.

Out of one hundred meals that come into the building from the elementary school across the street which has been turned into a "community feeding" station, at least half of the apples out of them are being left on the table in the lobby which has become the de facto donation table, where anything espied upon is fair game. I usually get a dirty look from one particular heavy set black lady of a security guard, one who wears "moo moo" dresses instead of the white shirt and black pants of all the other security personnel that man that desk by the donation table.

But, I believe she is one of those (at the risk of sounding like a bigot) black people who believe that the white man has so many privileges already, in the color of his skin, that it is despicable for him to take charity, such as things left on the donation table, when there are much more unfortunate people around, that might want them.

But, I guess, tomorrow, I will be playing The Virus Song at the intersection of Jeff Davis and Canal Streets.

He had to come down.

Jeff Davis just had the statue of his likeness torn down, but his street continues to glorify slave-holding (one pothole at a time).

There is a spot on the sidewalk right across from where I will hopefully be busking where the ground undulates palpably every time a heavy vehicle rumbles by when the light is green. I believe there is a giant sink-hole waiting to happen there; one that might even swallow up The Higher Ground Irish Pub, where I have often picked the ashtrays.

But, I have fallen into the giant sinkhole of binge eating.

I ate the burrito. Then I polished off the lemon flavored Oreo cookies along with strong coffee from the only Starbucks that is open. And one that will soon get an email from the headquarters commending the gentleman who ground my coffee just a bit more course than "paper filter" and chastising the two black girls for their anti social manners....but, I digress.

The day had started off with me accompanying Bobby to the Rouses Market. Bobby, who is sitting pretty and waiting for economic stimulus to come, as he is an SSI recipient, or whatever.

I went with him so he could buy me a drink and a can of cat food.

Then, I wound up riding around and went to to investigate the dumpster outside The Fresh Market.

It was just as I thought; heavy stuff piled on top of pieces of cardboard laid flat over the food items.

I confirmed this by ripping through a small section of the cardboard to discover a white plastic bag containing about a half dozen plastic containers of strawberries in yogurt, tightly sealed and still cold.

Like an idiot, I took only one of them, thinking then that it was some kind of heavy cream, and not yogurt that the strawberries were in. I can get away with eating yogurt, maybe because of the probiotics, who knows.

So, I ate the yogurt before I went to the Gallway to play, and it seemed to have opened up the floodgates for an avalanche of sugar to have hit me.
Nor were the two little containers of Lucky Charms cereal safe, and soon became part of the carnage...

I guess it will be back on the apple diet tomorrow. Almost everyone who gets the community meals leaves their apples up front. Which means they they normally live off all the other stuff, besides the apples. No wonder they are prone to health issues...