Being a literary genius, I am often wont to discover the plight of the common man, all the better to portray him in my large portfolio of novels, novellas and novelettes I have thought of. I am interested in the colloquialisms, the consumption of unhealthy mass-farmed vegetables, the use of violence and name calling to settle disagreements, and of course the triumphant ascension of the gifted few from this demographic of rudeness, brawl, and toil into a more genteel and enlightened state of hyperliteracy and interpersonal conscientiousness.
So it was with great interest that I regarded the thin, pathetic shell of a man woefully ringing a bell outside the local Fred Meyer store when I went to purchase some knit mittens along with a fluffy pair of earmuffs, all the better to repel the vile cold weather we've been experiencing of late. (This was on the Friday following Thanksgiving, when store owners reduce their prices so the poor may afford to purchase them. It is known as "Black Friday" in such circles, though why it's not referred to as "Pauper Christmas" I shall never understand.) There he stood in the cold, at once downtrodden and stoic. Could this person be my literary muse, my Tom Sawyer whom I might transcend into life with my literary gift? After several moments of staring directly at him without blinking, I made my approach. The presence of such a staggering literary genius obviously unsettled him, as he took several steps backwards and glanced nervously at the red pot of his earnings suspended in a tripod-like scaffold he had obviously cobbled together with various odds and ends. I had to put this creature at ease if I were to begin the delicate inception of his deliverance from banality.
"I like your bell." I said, maintaining a steady yet warm eye contact, which he seemed very wont to avoid. This compliment actually had the opposite effect of what I had intended, as he began looking to the other Fred Meyer denizens with a frantic expression, silently pleading for aid. A large, burly man with a tight haircut briskly walked by and deposited a few coins in his begging jar without regarding his nonverbal cues, and I think his heart literally broke in that moment.
This was a good thing though, as lower class persons often develop such a degree of stubborn resilience that they often can't be succored until they hit absolute rock bottom. This poor man was coming to terms with his outcast status, and divine intervention had seen to it that I was there to raise him from the depths of his illusory despair. I waited a moment or two, not once breaking eye contact, locked in a social stalemate with this vagabond and letting my genteel presence slowly erode the barrier society had erected between our respective socioeconomic classes.
When I sensed the moment was right, I spoke again in a level calm tone, not breaking my steady gaze. "I like your red begging pot too. That's very clever of you."
I was completely unprepared for what transpired next. He shrieked "Take it, motherfucker!!!" then wound his arm back like a pitcher and launched the bell squarely at my face. To no avail, though. Deep within the refined folds of my hefty brain lies the finely honed reflexes of a warrior, and my motor neurons effortlessly acquired the trajectory of the bell and gently, yet swiftly, guided my hand in front of it to pluck it from it's flight. The bell glanced off my fingertips and hit me squarely in the nose, but after a small amount of scrambling I managed to trap it between my forearm and belt as it fell. A rush of rage welled up, but then quickly subsided as I opened my eyes and saw the poor man's intent stare as he tried to assess the mote of damage he had caused. This was not his fault, these were the death throws of his white trash existence petulantly acting out knowing they were soon to be extinguished.
Of course, now people were staring and gathering around. Phones were coming out, a phenomenon with which I am all too familiar. With grand aplomb I stepped forward, and kneeling as a knight does, presented the bell to him.
"I believe you dropped this." I said, in reply to which he screamed "This guy is trying to rob me!"
This mendacious utterance was the last straw. To sully my reputation in public is simply over the line of decency, and with it the realization that this lousy bum was in fact not worth enlightenment came over me like a tsunami, and along with it a very red hot yet saintly rage fell over me.
"I ought to sue you for slander, you unsightly parasite!" I bellowed. He cowered in a corner while the crowd backed up with gasps and laughter. "Do you even understand the notion of work? This is what real work entails!"
And I snatched his begging jar and heftily threw it's contents into the Fred Meyer parking lot. There was a surprising amount of coin and small bills in there, and no doubt an afternoon of scrounging hurriedly after it would provide him with an appreciation of the hard work requisite to make an honest living. No longer caring for mittens nor earmuffs (my ears were quite red and hot at this point,) I indignantly stomped off. But not before confiscating his bell. "You need not carry hidden weapons such as this, sir! Beg with your own voice!" I snapped over my shoulder as I triumphantly strutted off.
As I walked home contemplating this damned soul and wondering what kind of cruel God could form such a wretched creature, I noticed several police cars running "code" (that's professional law enforcement officer slang for "driving quickly with lights and sirens aflame,") towards the Fred Meyer. Obviously the hobo was taking his rancor out on the crowd. I shrugged and waived, though the officer couldn't be bothered to return the kindness from his speeding cruiser. No matter, I wish them well in apprehending arresting, and hopefully committing this sick, sad soul to some manner of mental institution where he will no longer waste the effort and charity of others.
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