A Man Named Sue

I walk the lonely streets as passing cars throw buckets of city spew back from the street. I try to avoid the mess but it don't work out so good. The sky is red like a foreboding Charlton Heston bible story, artificial and still a little scary. I wish the mayor would see this. The way I see it. On the street, a real worms eye view. A beggar asks for some change but what he really needs is a water-tight box, measured just to his size. The kind that don't open so good and usually have six feet of dirt on top, he'll have use for it within a day or so if this rain keeps up. I toss him a bag of jerky I keep in my pocket for my landlady's dogs when they forget who I am. He throws it back with an indignant act of pride because it isn't anything he can drink. I keep walking, the jerky stays in the street until I turn the corner. I hear the crinkle of plastic rub against the sidewalk until frozen stubby fingers make their way into the nutrition inside. He was hungry, but that won't quiet the hole in his soul that only inebriation can fix. But for right now it gives him a little piece of humanity, and 24 more hours of hanging on.

Cab drivers don't dare work in this mess. You can't see your fares through the thick screen of swill on the windshield. You pick up any one of your local crank freaks, and it's all over. No one ever hears you scream in the city. You could be standing right next to a woman getting mugged and your ears just won't let you hear the need to get involved. It's like social de-evolution in action. The victims turn into negatives like a photograph that's been over developed. A memory that can't be saved. And even if you did want to do something, who can you call? Most people don't have enough cash on them to get the police involved. No body uses cash anymore anyway. It's all invisible currency now anyway; plastic and temporary like everything else. Unless you're a connected, run numbers, put cash out on the street or dirty public official, then you got it in spades. I say that like somewhere there exists a "clean" public servant.

That leaves me. I still walk through the danger of the streets. The thrill of putting my life in the hands of fate gives a chill up my spine, and lets me know I'm still human. On the other hand it's a great stress reliever when someone does try something. My therapist did say I needed an "outlet", like painting forest pictures or something. I took that as a pass to unleash on any particular individual that thinks he see's a target on my back. What? That's "something". Besides, I find my way of stripping a predator of all his dignity, and pummeling him into a pile of mashed potatoes cheaper and more effective anyway. Cause after that I feel great everytime.

After what seems like Noah's 40 days and 40 nights, or in my case forty blocks and forty bridges I'm here. Where is here you find yourself asking? Here is a bodega slash bar slash dive slash hole in the wall called "The Rasta". Now I don't practice the ganja rituals or like that calypso steel drum whiny crap they call music. No, I'm here for a job. See these guys run the pot racket for the whole city with permission from the council of course. These guys operate pretty peacefully but every once in a while (like days ending in the letter Y) they get a guy that won't pay for their services. That's where I come in. They know they can always count on me to get there collections, and I know I can get my "therapy". I see the guy that runs the joint no pun intended; talking to somebody I don't know in the corner. I sit down and have a shot or three and wait for him to finish what seems like a pretty intense conversation and notice my ugly mug. It takes a while, I think he may just want me good and drunk for what he's about to tell me I got to go do.

"Sue, so glad you're here. Getting enough to drink?" An almost indecipherable accent with a familiar crooked smile is now ready to give me the time of day.

Oh and yeah my daddy liked the Johnny cash song "A Boy Named Sue" and thought it was written as instructions for how to avoid raising a boy.

"So what'cha got for me Ro?"

"Not da' usual mon. No, dis gonna be some-ting real heavy, but you got to be da' one on dis. It got da whole council froze, and you got to get me outta dis mess."