Enlightening Nonsense

I was walking barefoot with Abandon on the nature trail we enjoy, the one saving grace for me living in this Washington Heights pool of scum, when I passed by a black man who seemed African. By “African” I don’t mean one of the phony blacks that have never experienced any racism more than a dirty look and think that the reason they are not rich and successful is because they are somehow oppressed by the white man instead of because they carry themselves like dumb apes, but a man actually from Africa, a new breed who came over without a chain on his neck or whip marks on his back, kind of like those from “The Matrix” who were born in the freedom of Zion without the holes all up and down their spines. And he shared his story. Or at least a story.

He said he did restaurant work, I think cooking, but lost his job somewhere in the South and that he came to New York because a friend said there were a lot of job opportunities here and he could stay with him until he got his feet off the ground. But when he got here, his friend had gone somewhere else and his friend’s girlfriend was like, “Your black ass can’t stay here,” and so he found himself up shit’s creak during corny season, where he stayed in a hotel until his money ran out.

He told me how tired he was, which I didn’t fully get because I figured even if you were homeless, you could still get plenty of sleep on the Hotel Sidewalk, which is the most common pastime of the New York homeless right after hitting eighteen holes of golf. But he was dressed pretty nicely and I empathized with a man who seemed to be struggling and found himself behind the eight ball.

I asked him if he got a job since he’s been here and he was $50 short on payment for his last day at the hotel and that they were holding his suitcase with his paperwork, such as his résumé, until he paid them. “I’ll go with you and I’ll get your suitcase back,” I told him, explaining how if he owed them $50 they could conceivably call the cops on him but they couldn’t steal his possessions. He told me this wouldn’t work. I assured him that he didn’t know me, and it would work, and if I implied I was a lawyer and was going to sue their dumb asses—believe me, we’d get the suitcase. He said it wouldn’t and I was annoyed that he wouldn’t let me try.

I asked, “Why don’t you just go and get the papers out of your bag then?” and he explained in a logic system that I was unfamiliar with how, due to the northwesterly currents from the eastern section of the Euphrates, this wouldn’t work either. He told me that he had someone who would let him store his bags at his place but he had to liberate the bags in question from the hotel first and he needed money to do so.

Word to the wise: just about everyone who asks for money in New York City and gives you a good story why they need it is full of shit. I guess I don’t need to give this message to the “wise” but to the unwise.

I have given more people with amazing stories about being mugged or having a coma and just getting out of the hospital, money than can keep me still in the “wise” category. Because I accidentally stumbled into them again or, more likely, actively searched them out, I discovered afterwards many of them were drug addicts. Back in a time when I was making money, I actually brought one guy back to my apartment and gave him an exorbitant amount of cash to the tune of about $120—and a friggin’ apple because I thought he may be hungry. He is the one guy if I happen to stumble upon will find himself stumbling to the ground after being hit by me.

But, call me gullible (or more accurately “unwise”), I like to believe that not everyone is a lying sack of shit and that perhaps, just maybe, a person may find himself in a bad situation and need some help to get back on his feet. If I didn’t have my parents’ teat to suck off when I find myself down and out and passing out from my prison of war diet of white rice and a few random ants, I too could be in the same situation as the black guy with the illogical story. So I gave him $5.

And the bitch looked at me like this was an insult. I was like, “Excuse me?” and told him that because of my hatred of black people, it was a miracle that I had given him five bucks in the first place. When I questioned him more about whether he was telling the truth or not, he cried crocodile tears that it was humiliating having to ask someone for money. I didn’t like any man to have to feel degraded like this and found myself mad at a society that allows men and women to fall between the cracks, or perhaps to the crack pipe.

The next day walking on the nature trail I bumped into the same black man and now it was clear to me that he was full of shit. First of all, he smelled of alcohol. Apparently he was mad about receiving only $5 from me because all that could buy would be a cheap bottle of Ripple and he had apparently gotten used to a more moderate Pinot Grigio. Now I was a little more combative.

“What happened to getting your bags and getting a friggin’ job—that you assured me with your credentials would be no problem?” I also commented about how he smelled like a brewery. I will spare you most of the bullshit but only say that I told him I thought he was full of shit and he needed to give me back my $5. He asked me where I would be in an hour and I told him. He told me he would get it for me, apparently from begging, stealing or a crack whore. Needless to say, he never showed.

It had been about a month since I’d seen him and I pretty much forgot all about him…until yesterday. I was walking the path with Abandon and didn’t have my contact lenses in. I saw a man approaching and as Abandon walked in his direction he said, “Does your dog bite?” I said, “All dogs bite but she won’t bite you.” I then saw it was Boozy Africa. “Do you remember me?” I asked. He said, “Of course.” And then came my dissertation.

"Hark, the man is kneeling and singing but I shall continue to express my verbosity in the background."

I told him how he had given me his word that he would bring me the $5 and that he never came. He said he did show up and I told him to shut the fuck up and let me finish my monologue, that while when I was a hack actor with a small role in a national tour of “Man of La Mancha” I often interrupted the lead with my ad lib lines, that I wasn’t a pussy like the lead actor and wouldn’t be extending the same privilege to him.

“Look, you smell like alcohol now. I’m not judging you. I understand this is the human condition and you find yourself in your own personal struggle and that this condition is something you have to deal with in anyway you can. But what I have a serious problem with is someone lying straight to my face. You told me a story and it was bullshit—don’t say anything and let me finish! The next time I saw you, you told me you would meet me with my $5 and I waited and you didn’t show up. I would respect a lot more if you told me straight up that you were full of shit rather than continuing this cascade of lies, in fact, that is what I need from you.”

With this he silently nodded and extended his hand. I said, “That’s not good enough. I need you to say something.” He said, “I made a mistake.” And with this we shook hands and I told him that our slate was now clean.

Not that I would lend Boozy Africa money again but if talked to straight, I can accept almost anyone’s situation with understanding. Who knows, it’s possible if I saw him again and he said, “Hey Swami, I’m down and out and a drink is the only thing that could give me at least a half-hour of peace. Can you help me out here?” that I might cast aside my judgments, and my logical-intellect that says I would be enabling his addiction, and my Jew conditioning that would want to see what I could get out of him in interest, and just help a brother out who wanted a moment’s respite from a life gone shitty.

We went our separate ways, Abandon and I continuing our walk on the nature path. I felt humbled and shed a few tears for being shown that with just a little effort and understanding, just about any slate could be cleared and all tallies erased and two people could start fresh and new. I thought about Ogre and me and how she just told me on Thursday that, like me and Boozy Africa, she and I needed to continue our walks on the path of life in separate directions.

I wished that she and I could just look at each other and each could voice our needs and frustrations, feel fully heard and understood, and wipe the slate clean. Maybe share a few swigs of Ripple from the same bottle.

It seems that if you allow insecurities and past conditions to go unchecked in a relationship where two people are allowing themselves to become more vulnerable with each other, it will create a knot of conflict that becomes Gordian. And perhaps there is no untying a knot this tight, that the only way to release it is to cut it out. And with this cut, the rope is no longer one but two…and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t put this rope back together again, let alone an egg man.

I have found myself exhausted from lack of sleep, lack of food and emotional drainage from my relationship with Ogre. Last night I went to sleep at 8:00 p.m. and didn’t wake up until the morning. Tonight I found myself trying to crash early as well but, as is typical, the Dominican scum were blasting loud music on the street after 10:30 and like flies to a pile of shit, all the local drug-dealers and their associates in the neighborhood were buzzing around.

In the past I have asked directly to one or more of the music blasters if they minded turning it down, as I have to get up early, most days at 5:00 a.m. One time I was told they would and it took over an hour for anyone to touch the volume button on the boom box. The next day when I talked to the dealer who was on volume control and said, “What the fuck?”he told me that he had “bounced” a little after he had agreed to my request and after being immersed in this Washington Heights cesspool for a year now, I am thinking that by “bounce” he meant he had to go and impregnate yet another 20-something year old girl, adding another “baby mama” to his mantel.

Another time the music was blasting louder than I have ever heard a box radio blasting and I came down and, after being given an attitude from some douche, they ended up turning it down. I have to admit to perhaps not talking in my best Non-Violent Communication (NVC), as after I heard the douche say, “Is it too loud?” all I could think of was cracking his dumb skull on the sidewalk and hearing the pop as his empty skull opened up. The fact that my useless Super, which is really a misnomer as she is anything but “super,” was down there doing nothing only added to the feeling of futility in which I find myself.

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FOR THE COMPLETE PIECE GO TO

http://rebelyogi.com/shit-flies

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