The Vagabond Who's Rapping At Your Door

It’s hot. It’s Sunday. Neither of these things make me happy. Some people like Sundays, but I’ve always hated them. Sunday means Monday is almost here. And fuck, I hate Mondays.

I’m looking for somewhere to eat lunch. There are lunch places on every block, which makes my decision even harder. It’s not easy to make a choice when all your choices look almost identical. I prefer fewer options. When there are fewer options you can examine each one with refined attention.

“Sir, can you help me?”

Another person trying to sell me something or ask me for something or ask me to help him sell something to someone so the children in Africa can have mosquito nets. Fuck off.

“Sir, Please. Please, where can I find this? This!”

He’s waving around a piece of paper. No, a photograph. I grab it. Curiosity beats hunger.

“This place is magic. I’ve made it past the wall! The guards didn’t even see me! I slipped right past it. Right past it! And now I need to go here. To this place. Tell me where it is. It’s magic, I just know it.”

It’s some cheesy, artsy photograph. It looks like it was made by some graphic design undergrad. It’s a landscape, somewhere in New York City. Looks like the Bronx.  It’s black and white, except for a yellow cab, which still retains its color. I say I’m sorry and hand it back to the man.

A book falls out of his coat as he takes it from me. Nadja. I read that in college, in one of those classes where you talk about art and life. He scampers away, mumbling to himself, and scaring a family of tourists as he crosses the street. 

 http://whatablue.blogspot.com/

Beginning

It was the 4^th in the city. I spent the day trying to decide if that was a good thing. At around 8 the drunken rush began. People pushed their way down streets and snuck around police barricades in attempts to grab the best vantage point. When we couldn’t go any further we found ourselves confined between two tenement buildings. Bordered on all sides by doughy flesh and American flags that were made in Spain.

The city stifled the stars and I wished that I could snap my fingers and be taken to some sort of distant foothill in a distant countryside pushed in between two mountains, purple and majestic.

A loud boom forced me to focus and as I looked up I could make out the corner of a bright explosion. It was red and white and it lingered for a moment before dissolving into the hazy black air.

Then came more explosions. Loud booms. Bright reds and blues. Smoke. War sounds. And I forgot what we were celebrating. And all I could think about was that this is what destruction sounds like.

And on that morning in September these were the sounds that replaced the honks of taxis and caused men in suits to look up and stare with open mouths.

But no one around me was scared.

 Their faces lit up. They smiled. But I couldn’t. All I could think about was that if they came back none of us would be able to outrun the fire. We were corralled hogs. There would be nothing but screeches, whistles and screams as the still and blank night sky was painted with bright red explosions.

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