While driving home from work yesterday, I tried to take a picture of the car in front of me. It was an older model Trans Am, not very well maintained, with a cracked taillight, giant Van Halen logo sticker across the back window, and a license plate cover that said “Too Close for Missiles, Switching to Guns.” But my phone said I was using too much storage space and it wouldn’t let me take a picture. And then a space opened up so I took it, because as much as I would have loved photographic evidence of this remarkable automobile, I’m not sitting in traffic for any longer than is necessary.
Especially yesterday, which was my Friday because I took vacation today since Craig is in town and I figured I could
show him around a little use his visit as an excuse to get piroshky. Also yesterday was not the easiest day at work. Either my boss was having a bad day or just felt like punishing me, because I only barely got my own shit done and left there sweating.
“FUCK TODAY,” I told Craig when I got home. “Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty.”
So we walked to a dog bar in the neighborhood because a) alcohol and b) puppies! On the way, we passed a small market by the house. There are always dudes begging in front; some of them are regulars who know me well enough to just say “good morning” or whatever (like the guy who told me about his grandmother who was a teacher and his portable DVD player while we waited for the same bus once) and some of them are guys I never see but look kind of scary so I don’t even nod to them.
Anyone who’s seen anything on the Internet ever knows about bum fights. I’m not talking about the ones that asshole people pay to see, I’m talking about the actual bum fights in which two bums happen to be fighting. Because from what I understand, bummery is a territorial game, and apparently this market is a profitable spot. As Craig and I approached the front of the market, we saw one of the bums take a swing at the other with what appeared to be a bike fender or some other long, plastic thing. As he swung, he said “FIND YOUR OWN CORNER, MOTHERFUCKER” and then the other one called his opponent a faggot and said “YEAH THAT’S WHY YOU BLEEDING.”
It wasn’t until we got closer and the swinging bum put down his weapon that I saw it was not a bike fender or a piece of plastic, it was a chain. And the other bum was walking away with a chain in his hand. Big, hardware store chains, just swinging (or is it swangin’) away in this hippie oasis. Craig and I witnessed a hobo chain fight, which I guess should be scary but it was also kind of endearing and made me a little bit homesick for a city where most people are unabashedly fucked up and hobos do not give a shit about fucking someone up with a chain in public.
God love Saint Fuckin Louis.