I Whack A Skeezer Over The Head With A Can Of Cat Food Inside A Plastic Bag...

I had to laugh when I got home and Harold was meowing to be fed and I remembered that I had gotten him a can of food at the CVS on Canal Street.

It wasn't until I saw the deformed can that I remembered that I had indeed hit the skeezer first.

I guess I'm glad I didn't finish him off after I had joined my bike chain with the padlock, turning it into a skull cracking weapon. I always am glad whenever I catch myself going berserk and stop myself..

It's 5 a.m. and I'm not having cops knock at my door; as I probably would be having if I had cracked the skeezer's skull with the padlock at the end of the bike chain.

Although, I keep running the movie in my head of doing just that. 

But, every inch of the Quarter is under camera surveillance and they might have investigated the bludgeoning of a skeezer, who was carrying a tarp and just a homeless drug addict.

But, that is not why I whacked this skeezer over the head. I did that because he was letting the air out of the front tire of my bike, as it was locked to the rack in front of CVS.

I had just finished busking for about an hour and a half, starting at 11:20 and making 13 bucks off a light crowd.

The guy had approached me as I was standing by my bike which was locked to the rack near CVS, asking me if I needed a tarp. He was holding a rolled up tarp of some kind.

I was drinking a 24 ounce can of PBR which I had just bought in CVS, along with a can of food for Harold. I had double bagged the stuff, anticipating having to swing it like a weapon, based upon another really washed out looking red haired guy who had been kind of making a scene inside CVS, but being ignored by everyone except me, who merely turned and looked at him.

I was following the instructions that the self check out thing was giving me, scanning the PBR and the cat food and placing them in the bagging area. But the guy was yelling something unintelligible at nobody in particular, and I glanced at him just quickly enough to assess him to be one of those white people who are too white, so as to be almost pink, which he was, and his orange hair just screamed mentally unstable. Some people can just be summed up and judgement passed upon them, based upon appearance alone; that is just a fact of life.

When I heard him say something like: "What are you staring at?" presumably directed at me, I was concentrating upon pressing the right buttons and inserting the coins first and bills second. It crossed my mind that, upon seeing the whole 13 dollars that I intentionally pulled out in order to flash in front of him, for that very purpose, he was going to ask me for money. Even after having made the "What are you staring at?" comment.

I decided to mess with him some more after he hadn't tried to skeeze me but kept talking gibberish. 

My machine started repeating something in its lady's voice, like "Please place the item in the bag," over and over. I purposely kept the item out of the bag to make it repeat, so I could say (to the machine, right?): "Will you shut the f*** up?!"

Which caused the albino looking guy who, because of that appearance must also have had some kind of brain deformity, to start directing threats at me, who, for my part just kept my attention on the machine, which was then telling me that I had an age restricted item and that help was on the way.

The pale skinned orange haired guy had been urged towards the exit and told to leave by the black ladies who work there, with no help at all from a guy in a security uniform who sat in a chair by the entrance and never seemed to look away from his phone.

So, I took two bags, getting a smile from a very tall young black girl, which probably because she too has noticed that plastic bags have gotten thinner and weaker starting a few years ago. How amused would she have been had she known that I had double bagged my stuff in anticipation of having to swing the bag like a pitcher throwing a baseball and clock retarded boy over the head with the items.

But, I would wind up doing that to an entirely different person, as orange boy was nowhere to be seen after I stepped outside.

So, I cracked the PBR open and was sipping it. Along came the young guy carrying the rolled up tarp. He was a little shorter than me and probably about the same weight, but was about 35 years younger than me. That should have been substantial in a combat situation, but it is amazing how much decay and atrophy can befall a kid even as young as 20.

He asked me if I needed a tarp. I told him no, in fact I had a tarp that I was getting ready to throw out (having begun reading the Japanese art of de-cluttering book).

Then he asked me if, well, could I just give him some money instead of buying the tarp.

I then decided to mess with him.

"I'm gonna need all the money I got just to get my dope; in fact I'm probably gonna have to cop short a couple bucks if he'll let me slide..."

The sarcasm in this was lost upon him, because his attitude wasn't one of: "F** you; you're making fun of me because you know I'm trying to sell the tarp to get drug money" but rather he became wily and cunning and some kind of plot seemed to have hatched in his mind. 

He then became pseudo charming and with an upbeat half smile, told me enthusiastically that he was looking for some dope "too" and added that he had money (even though he had been a minute ago totally broke and just trying to get "enough for a hamburger") and he could cover whatever I might be short.

"Where's the dope?" he implored me to tell him; as in, come on, let's go; you push your bike, I'll walk alongside of you and, the skeeze will be on.

"Up on Treme Street," I said offhandedly, as if to say happy trails, you can spend your money there "Just walk down that street where the Asian massage place is.."

But, that somehow wasn't good enough for him. I suppose I was underestimating how much an addict's whole universe revolves around his fix and so, in his mind, why would I have anything better to do than to escort him to wherever they sold dope; I would be bringing them more business and might get a kick-back myself.

Then perhaps seeing the guitar around my neck and my backpack as a liability threatened to kick my ass, or something if I didn't show him where the dope was.

"Really, you're threatening me because I won't show you where the dope is?!'

I then walked away from him and the bike rack and started to sip on the Pabst where I was only a few feet away from the uniformed security guy, a fat black guy whose only usefulness seemed to be in sitting there poking at his phone and not getting involved in any sort of disputes. I still had Harold's can of food in the doubled bag.

A few sips into the beer, I looked over to see the skeezer letting air out of the front tire of my bike, whereupon I snapped in a way that only tequila has ever made me do in the past and I ran over to him and swung the bag as hard as I could, aiming the can for the crown of his head, which was still turned down and facing the valve stem of the tire.

It was a direct hit and he fell backwards, as if surprised that I would have resorted to violence against his non violent act of deflating a tire. It crossed my mind that he was trying to make it so I would have to walk the bike to wherever the dope was, allowing him to follow along and take advantage of whatever weakness he could uncover in me.

He then said: "You're going to jail!" and looked like he was considering running from me, should I continue to attack.

But then, perhaps seeing that I was encumbered by still having all my gear around my neck, he advanced upon me throwing punches which I was able to block all of so that my glasses and my hat were still on my head.

This had backed us to right in front of the fat black guy in the security uniform who sat on his stool, obliviously staring at his phone. I wondered what he would have done had I turned and punched him in the face.

I thought about taking my guitar and backpack off and my glasses so as to be in a more proper condition to fight; and probably should have, because instead of walking off after failing to land a punch, the skeezer grabbed my milk crate from where it sat near my bike with some air out of its front tire. He dumped a book that I had found and was carrying in the crate, out onto the sidewalk, and then came at me; right in front of security guy who barely moved; swinging the crate at me, and managing to cut my arm as I blocked it.

He then walked off, leaving the crate on the sidewalk.

I finished the beer out of a can that was partially crushed as I had held onto it while fending off blows, such was my desire to not have to interrupt what I was doing by putting everything down, the beer, the guitar etc. that I had just held onto it.

After I finished it, and when I was unlocking the bike, I squeezed the front tire, and finding it a little soft, I resolved to lock the two ends of my bike cable together and then go after the skeezer, who was still in sight a few blocks up canal. I would use the cable to generate deadly velocity on the padlock and crack his skull.

The one thing I did get out of the security guy was that he would be willing to let me set my gear down by him so I could go off in pursuit on my bike; he seemed to be encouraging of it. I guess that's what a certain political faction wants in this country; violence and chaos on every street everywhere.

I wondered if it was the tequila motivating me; knowing that it was as I closed in on the skeezer, mentally swinging the lock; making sure that I chocked up on the cable to curtail its arc to make it less likely that the skeezer could grab it; he surely wouldn't be trying to stop the padlock with a hand, but you never know what a person is going to do when in fear of their life..

I had a chance to think of the irony of my having watched the video of the Tibetan Yogis the night before; and I was pretty sure that this was the kind of challenge that life always throws at people who make some endeavor at becoming more spiritual; here I had been meditating the night before and, shortly after wa ready to hear the dull thud of a padlock hitting bone..

I knew that it was the tequila doing its thing again, at the intellectual level.

When I encountered him, I threw my bike down by the trolley tracks which attracted his attention. He saw that I had gotten rid of all my baggage and was holding the bike cable with about a foot of length to the padlock, and I think it was the fear that he showed, as he began to hurry back towards the light of Canal Street instead of continuing into the darkness of Toulouse Street, where a lot of skeezers sleep on the sidewalk, that made me decide not to attack him.

I rode home, playing a movie of me beating him to near death in my mind over and over again. I didn't settle down until I got into my apartment and heard Harold meowing for food.

Remembering that I indeed had gotten him a can of turkey flavored Friskies, I retrieved the plastic bags from my guitar case and had to laugh at how the can was caved in so much that it looked like a half a can.

It was only then that I remembered that I had indeed hit him first as he had claimed. I had totally forgotten that part until seeing the can of cat food.

I still was wishing I had bought something a lot more solid in CVS, which would have been in the bag...like one of those glass candles with Jesus on them that weigh about a pound and a half and are made of heavy glass full of solid wax...

But, this whole post should have been about the busking and making the 13 bucks in about 80 minutes of playing. But it wound up being about the evil spirits that seemed to be everywhere that night...

Even the young black kid who looked like that Smolett guy who faked the hate crime, who gave me the second shot of tequila may have been one of them...

When I got back to Sacred Heart there was a guy who resembled the skeezer a lot whom I knew couldn't have been him unless he had flown there. The guy kind of challenged me with a "what the hell are you looking at?" attitude...

Then, when I was going out to get another beer because my mind was still racing with wishing I had bought something heavier in CVS and would the police be knocking at my door that morning charging me as being some kind of aggressor; there was yet another rather tall and skinny black guy, swinging his fists at some invisible opponent and saying something like: "Nobody threatens me!" and I had to show him the cut on my arm which was oozing blood in order to calm him down, saying: "Yeah, I had the same problem with someone tonight..."

The sight of fresh blood seemed to give him a reality check upon the difference of talk and action. Instead of throwing punches at the air, why don't you go get yourself some of this actual blood? type of thing. When I got home with the beer he was gone, as was the other guy who resembled the skeezer...

I laid down and went to sleep, forgetting to wrap my wound and woke up worrying about infection as the cut was rubbing on my mattress; so I used some Neosporatin (sp?) type stuff that I had just happened to have found right before going out to busk. Bobby had once given it to me and it had fallen out of a sock that I pulled out of my drawer while getting ready to go. I had set it somewhere, not knowing that I would be needing it a few hours later...

Instead of seeing failure in that I watched the Tibetan Yogi video and then went out and did something counter to its teachings; I am seeing success in that, had I not watched the video I might have to be in fear of police knocking on my door any time now, had they found a bludgeoned skeezer on Toulouse Street.