As I was crossing the street, I saw a long-haired, grubby, bearded dude dancing frantically on the corner, as if he had just rubbed some Ben Gay on a groin pull and by mistake got some on his Johnson. I checked my physical body to make sure that what I was seeing wasn’t a large mirror reflecting my own flailing body, for this dirty, flea-infested wack job was a dead ringer for me and dancing on street corners is one of my frequent pastimes. I didn’t think it was me because I believe myself to be a little more graceful in my moves and so I smiled broadly. Of course it was possible that I was like one of those tone deaf douchebags on his audition for “American Idol” who thinks he’s the shit when really he is shit.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kgv06QjWRP4
He stopped suddenly and started walking and I just so happened to be going his way. I caught up to him and walking alongside him I said, “How ya’ doin’?” He looked at me and what seconds ago was a man seemingly acting without a concern in the world for what others might think of him, now became a mute who clammed up like a nerdy boy responding to a pretty girl who asked him for the time, right before he unloads his bladder down his pant leg. He gave me a guttural sound and a head nod and looked nervously ahead. I didn’t let him get off so easy.
“What’s your story, brother?”
He gave me a one-word answer like, “Nothing.”
“Come on we all have a story. I have a story…I like stories.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve got nothing for me?”
“No.”
Now anyone with either half a brain or something better to do would have just dropped the matter and been on his way. But I only have a quarter of a brain and I have nothing better to do—so I didn’t.
“I don’t get it, a minute ago I saw you dancing without a care in the world and now just talking one-on-one you seem so closed off.” At this point I almost hoped he would jump on me, knock me to the ground and bite my ear off while shouting, “DEATH TO THE INFIDELS! CAT STEVENS RULES!” just to break up the monotony and because I like Cat Stevens. But he didn’t.
He was a real fuckin’ bore when he wasn’t dancing, kind of like “Fun Bobby” without alcohol on Friends. I was going to tell him that if he were on Friends and acted this way, Monica would have no choice but to dump him but I was afraid he would say that Monica would never go out with a guy like him, to which I’d have to go through all the losers she’s dated over the ten seasons run and, frankly, I wasn’t sure that Old Grubby here was worth the series in review.
Staples was to my left and I said, “I’ve got to buy a…a staple now. Yeah, a staple. Take care.” He mumbled a word and I silently cursed his high school public speaking teacher for giving up on him prematurely.
I reflected on how cool it would be if everyone just danced wildly whenever they felt the urge, without the need for some major psychosis to act like a few drinks at a party to loosen them up. What’s the worst that would happen? Maybe someone would laugh at you because that is the only way they know to drown out the little voice inside of them that quietly whispers, “I would like to be that free.”
I know if I have the urge to dance like that I will—and I have—regardless of what is going on around me. And if some long-haired, grubby, dirty, flea-infested swami came up to me and asked me my “story,” I would tell him that I was not put on the planet to tuck his filthy ass under the blanket and read him a bedtime story. I probably would be just as closed off as my spastic double…but at least I’d be a little more eloquent about it.
ADDENDUM: I wrote this piece last week and needed to have someone take the matching pictures of the Joaquin Phoenix burn-out pics. I went on the sidewalk and asked some young, gayish-looking dude, “Hi, can you take a couple of quick pictures of me?” figuring those gays are good with artistic stuff. He almost completely ignored me and then just say, “No,” without missing a beat. I think he might have even just say, “N…,” as he didn’t even find me worth the “O”.
The next guy I asked was happy to do it and even asked to look at the comparison photos another time so as to take the best shots he could on my dinosaur 4 megapixel Canon PowerShot. I asked him where he was from originally and he told me Germany. It seems that whether exterminating Jews or taking photos, those Germans really put their hearts into it.