Dear Homeless Oil Man

David:

Once I was standing near the bus stop at night, leaning against a pole, watching the street and the tourists wading by, carelessly, drunkenly, happily. It was almost nine. I was almost gone from this wretched city, glad it was my last evening bus ride home, glad this was over with.

I became lost in thought.

Suddenly I heard a deep, unrecognizable voice behind me: "Gotcha." I felt a presence behind me. True to my slow reflexes, I calmly turned around and said, "Hi."

"I coulda got you there, couldn't I!" An aging homeless black man grinned back at me. I recognized him--he wandered by this street every other night, sometimes proffering advice, sometimes wobbling with a brown bag in his hand. He was harmless, or so I thought. Luckily I was never proven wrong.

"You better watch out where you standing, yeah?" The panic, seemingly delayed, finally started to rise in my throat.

"Yeah, thanks," I told him. As he sauntered away--a stylistic limp--I swallowed, hard, and frowned. So much for relaxing on this last night.

I resumed my usual arms-crossed, ankles-crossed, frowning stance leaning against the side of the lit building near the bus stop. I tried to look as unfriendly and ugly as possible.

That is what you did to me, too. I never want to hear your words again. I never want to hear the city ask me for my money, for my patience, or for my sexuality again.

Fuck you.