Someone threw a sandwich wrapper at me this morning as I crossed the great gulf that splits my city in two, breaking my reverie, to the cackle of his friends.
They seemed surprised when I was stopped in my tracks, inquiring: “what the hell was that about?”
Their laughter was replaced by silent smirks and a little dance by the trickster doing tragicomic tricks—at a time like this?—a strange two-step to a secret jig playing in his head. He tugged at his loins and approached me, staring me down with Dennis the Menace eyes too dark to read. All the while, he kept up his seductive advances.
He danced, right there, under glorious spring rain, on that bridge named after settler kin—a hop to the right, a hop to the left, arms swaying in slow circles by way of invitation into his oom-pah loom-pah chicken dance. I proceeded with my arrhythmic inquiry: “why are you trying to intimidate me?”
Was this the Devil at the fork in the road or was this the Buddha I am meant to kill?
I squinted at his mute hieroglyph of a face and saw nothing. I peered over his shoulder and let his pack of friends come back into focus: they were all smiles, waiting for our denouement. I thought of a thousand vultures with optical zoom lenses cocked and loaded, readying for the assault.
“Jesus Christ.”
