The Patron (416 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 2 on 14 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by r0fl (View user info) at 2006-11-18 20:10:40 EST
The leaves rustled in the breeze, and I wondered if I even needed to tell you that. The breeze part, that is. Leaves don't rustle on their own; lest I haven't seen it happen. Anyway, they leaves traveled down the street, amber and bronze colored, red and pale yellow, traveling above the updrafts along the asphalt. They smelled of autumn, smelled of Halloween, the smells that brought memories of full pillow-sacks of candy, of the sweet smell of once-a-year-face-paint, of cavities and bellyaches. This was the best time of year, no doubt about it.
I walked down the city street giving a polite nod to those I passed, smelling the seasons and wishing it was about 10 degrees warmer. No big deal, I snorted to myself, as I propped up the hood of my sweatshirt and the collar of my overcoat. My last class of the day was a mere twelve minutes away, and the sounds of the city dissolved in the endless background enveloping me, the iPod in my left ear (opposite the street), the rubber soles of my shoes on the pavement, the endless chatter of those around. An ambulance wailed in the distance behind me.
My Reeboks plodded down the sidewalk as I passed the regular intersection where those iPod headphones came in handy; the panhandlin'section, the place where you wished you were invisible, deaf, mute. I was brought up strict Catholic, whatever that meant now that I mention it, and hated denying these beggars what I had in my pockets, but after a few weeks, the same souls had their hands outstretched in his face day after day, constantly judging, constantly hungry, constantly drunk just didn't seem that needy.
At some point, you have to say no. Don't you?
Don't you?
I pulled up the other earpiece and wandered past, looking at some unforeseen object in the distance, slightly to the left, across the horizon, tangential to the plane of the planet. It usually worked. A cool gust of wind blew in my face, and my hood blew backwards onto my shoulders, and a view of a few homeless men came into view. My stubbled cheeks flushed, growing red with anticipation. My palms sweat.
One was Supreme, the self-titled freestyle hip-hop aspirer; who always asked for a "few nickels." Supreme was generally a nice guy; he'd be one you'd wave to whenever you passed by as long as he wasn't drunk or demanding reparations (which he sometimes, albeit subtly, does).
"Brosef," he'd say, "How 'bout them Patriots?"
I'd say that this might the year, like the last few, that they are actually pretty good. After that though, you would pretend to not notice someone else, a newcomer, in Supreme's notably raga bond posse. He'd stood out, like the darkest crayon in a Crayola box, the one that nobody ever used or asked to borrow. One who'd probably not belong, sharp as the day off the assembly line of waxed coloring utensils.
He had unkempt black hair and was black; generally someone you hadn't seen before but never really took notice. Once you locked eyes, you understood, in a weird sort of way.
It was the blue eyes that got me, not used to seeing them on a black guy. I grabbed the sleeves of my backpack by the thumbs and hiked it up. I heard Supreme sprouting his gibberish; I ended up head nodding the rest of his crew, eyeballing a new guy.
The new guy, the guy with clear blue eyes, seemed to speak to me without words; speak to me like a dam exploding with imprisoned, polluted, decanted water. It'd only lasted an instant - the time it takes to blink - but I continued on my way, different somehow. I went to class, sure. I paid attention, sort of. But Mr. Cool Eyes, the New Guy, would sit on the corner with Supreme, with Mr. Jeffries and Ole' Eddy; and stare at those around him, and not find anyone worthwhile. They'd stare are the street vendors, peddling their trinkets and wares, in disapproval to the rest of society. They'd joke about past times and journeys, passing the time until the college kids got outta class, hoping to score their spare change and subsequent dinner.
I finished class and started walking home. I gave a nonchalant glance over to the corner, saw Blue-Eyes over there, complete with Supreme and the cronies in the local 7-11 cashing in on their panhandling bounties; eating Ham-and-Cheese Lean Pockets and sighing satisfyingly at their day's hard work.
My Reeboks trudged through the inner city, away from school and people, away from those I didn't know. He'd said something to me - something in that millisecond it takes for a human to blink - that resonated. I hadn't figured it out yet, but it was there. I felt funny.
It was deep in my bones, deep inside. Mr. Blue Eyes wasn't new, he wasn't old, and he wasn't subjective. You wouldn't or couldn't measure him; he was just there. He looked like one who didn't need any help in the Goddamn world, and one who needed anything he could get at the same time. I bet he didn't have footprints, a smell, a taste.
I woke up from an afternoon nap, woke up with night sweats (in the afternoon, nonetheless), a fever, the chills. I dreamt something, something big. But it was one of those dreams that you couldn't remember when you awoke. I stumbled out of my bed, my feet planting on the hardwood floors, tossing the dirty clothe aside.
The alarm on my cell-phone went of a moment later, infuriating me that I missed out on an extra minute or two of sleep. It was 4:17 PM; time to go volunteer at the soup kitchen down the street. I had to volunteer; well, not had to... but it looked good on applications after I graduated. And I got a free dinner out of it, and it wasn't half bad.
It was a slow day, like most days, with mostly Supreme and his friends coming in ten minutes before we closed. We accommodated the best we could, even as he spouted off his rap-gibberish. He was drunk. Supreme came in with Eddy and the new guy, Blue-Eyes. Supreme and Eddy got plates with two helpings, and the new bearded guy got the last portion of bread in the whole joint with his meal.
"Gotta piss fellas," Supreme noted, stumbling around the corner to figure out where the bathroom was, as if I'd moved it. Eddy followed, because that's what Eddy does.
"Why do I feel like I know you?" I said, picking up their plates, ready to leave.
The bearded blue-eyed man forced a productive cough into the red and black flannel sleeve of his shirt and wiped whatever he expelled on it on the back of his pants. "Occasionally son, somebody asks that exact same thing. I don't know. You got any change?" I handed him a five-dollar bill and wondered what the hell I was doing, why wasn't I just picking up the silverware for the sterilizer? Supreme, however rough around the edges, I consider my friend from the years I've lived in the city during school.
"What's your name, where are you from?" I asked, hearing Supreme mumbling around the corner about nonsense. Definitely drunk.
"Don't really have a name, or a home, as you can see," he replied, gesturing to his surroundings. He told me a half-true story I supposed, about being an orphan and taking the Peterpan bus from this city to the next when his welcome was worn out. Boston was just his next stop on his journey he says.
"The first woman in my life," he continued, "she was always ashamed of me, always said I brought her shame. My first foster mother. She'd yell it out the window when I was little, and kids got to callin' me Shamies." I go by that now, I guess. Even though I've cleaned a bit."
His beard, a mixture or brown and gray, incomplete, merely portrayed his attentiveness, his listening skills. Random red hairs spiked through his chin, his Pacific Blue eyes delved deeply into me.
I've considered a career in Social Work or something of the sort, and take it a part to talk to those less unfortunate when I can to build my skills and see what it's going to be like in the real world someday, talking to people as unfortunate as Shamies and Supreme on a daily basis. I pressed on.
"So, what's your story?"
He coughed again, almost violently. He held his hand close to his lips, stifling any air or germs that wanted to escape. You didn't see that often here. None of the patrons really cared about hygiene or even others, for that matter.
"I'm sure you've heard it a thousand times before... my Father didn't accept me, my mother couldn't handle my Father's demands, blah, blah, blah..."
I was trying to avoid his eyes as I was now sitting across the table from him; his eyes completely contrasting the faux-Italian restaurant tablecloths we'd used to give it a more homely feel. They didn't even know what a home was. What's the point?
"Try me, man. If you wanna talk about hearing stories a thousand times, I've heard Supreme's a thousand times. And I don't even ask anymore. I'm sure he's tellin' someone right now..." I said, trailing off, looking around the corner to see if he was coming back. He wasn't. "Have the local guys made you feel welcome?" I asked, trying to maintain small talk.
"Yeah, Jeffries, Eddy and Supreme scraped together some money and bought me this hat, actually," he said pointing to the Patriots wool hat he had sticking out the pocket of his flannel shirt.
"Well, they seem to like you. They're a close-knit bunch."
"Appreciate it man, but there's really nothing to tell. My Pops told me I was destined for greatness, his friends told me they'd help, told me I was special. I told them, shit, you think I'm special? I was livin' in a one bedroom apartment in New York with my mom and 7 other sisters and brothers. Think there was any time for me? I got the fuck outta there."
"Have you spoken since?"
"Sure we have, one in awhile, well, his friends somehow manage to find me. Tell me that they're disappointed, that it wasn't supposed to be like this. I tell 'em no shit. I don't like 'em anyways; they think they're better than everyone else."
"What does your Father do?" I asked, surprisingly interested.
"Fucked if I know, nowadays. He was a consultant or something, on an ethics board of some major company. He was never around, always doing stuff. Whatever, I never really saw him."
I heard Shamies speaking while I was tidying up the dining area, now noticing how similar in age we were. He couldn't be more than a year or two older than me. As if sensing what I was thinking, he blurted it out.
"I know what you're thinking, and yes, we're the same age."
I feigned as if I wasn't thinking it, but there was no foolin' this guy. He spun his spoon around in the remnants of his soup, dunking the rest of his bread in occasionally. He used the crust of the last of his bread to scoop up a carrot and noodle and finished the rest, drinking the broth.
"I'll be here anytime you wanna talk, Shames." I said, mostly sincere. He scratched his hair behind his ears and sighed, seemed to be reflecting on his choices. He drank some water, nearly coughing it up with his dinner.
"Let's bounce, Sham-ee-o," Supreme said as he emerged. His hands dripped onto the floor - I prayed it was water from washing his hands. He smelled of Malt Liquor.
"Alright brother," Shamies replied, giving me a reassuring look. "I'll see you 'round," he told me, pulling his pockets inside-out to show he didn't steal anything as he left.
"You don't need to do that here, we're here to help," I told him.
"Yeah, I suppose, just last place I was at it was a big deal, sort of a habit now."
The dark-skinned men strolled down the street; Shamies hand on Supreme's arm, steadying him, comforting him. I watched them leave and shut the door, the three bells ringing as the door closed, banging against the bulletproof glass. I helped lock up and left the other exit.
Supreme and Shamies headed towards a shelter for the night. The sky was pure-black, the bare-minimum number of stars poking out to light up the night. As I was putting my headphones in, walking half a block behind their group, I saw Shamies hand him a piece of bread from his pocket. I plugged one ear-bud in (opposite the street) and turned the volume on low, half-listening to music, half to them.
"Shit brother, I'm still hungry, after all that food." Supreme moaned, rubbing his stomach.
"Probably from the booze man, here, this bread will soak some of it up."
It was then that I knew what Shamies was talking about all along. I hope he hangs around.
User Reviews
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-11-20 11:55:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2006-11-20 10:24:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by RPharazon (user info) at 2006-11-19 15:32:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
The guy in the picture looks exactly like my school's janitor...
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-11-19 13:25:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-19 11:12:42 (#)
Ranking: 2
This deserves more good ratings....
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I don't know what I said last night, I was pretty drunk. Thanks for the ratings.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-19 11:12:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This deserves more good ratings....
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-18 22:19:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
ROfl, I certainly hope you don't think I insulted you. I wouldn't do that.
I figure you are one of the brighter people on this site....
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-11-18 22:03:08 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Did I just get insulted?
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-18 21:45:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Whate is the abbbbrevviiaatt... er...ah.. shortened form of "whatever."
I liked your post.....
Keep a cool tool, ya fool....
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-11-18 21:38:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-18 21:33:10 (#)
Ranking: 2
Fine. A good story.
Symbolism?? Where??
I don't think so.....
Don't make me change my rating due to your lack of whate.....
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I've tried to find a definition for whate, unsucessfully. Regardless, symbolism? If I have to post it, it means I'll have to to better next time. I appreciate the +2 though, regardless. Thanks Bubba, I've always liked your stuff.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-18 21:33:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fine. A good story.
Symbolism?? Where??
I don't think so.....
Don't make me change my rating due to your lack of whate.....
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-11-18 21:21:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-18 21:20:35 (#)
Ranking: 2
OK. Good story.
Nothing else....
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Am I gettin' a fucking comment yet or what?
The symbolism people, the SYMBOLISM.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-18 21:20:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
OK. Good story.
Nothing else....
Submitted by extacy_red (user info) at 2006-11-18 20:32:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2006-11-18 20:17:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment