brotha

The dark-skinned man appeared an hour or more ago, his ticking — call them “smooching” gesticulations — punctuating the social space all around him. His eyes let on mystery and suffering. His attempts at “pounding it” with passers-by mostly failing. His hugs, his begging even less successful. This man, dressed in Basketball gear, and with not the handsomest face, has probably not had it easy whatso-fucking-ever, like the vast majority (or all?) of black people. A vain thrust at making human connections by someone who seemed to have very few. Desperation.

I remember when he had finished his can of booze, dumped out the rest, causing the black beamer’s brows to furrow, smashed the can, swept it under the privileged underbelly of the BMW.  Like the fancy car, the people in this cafe, if I’m reading them right, help make up the monolithic bull of hardcore privilege and power, around which the flies of poverty frailly and vainly dance. They could hardly be bothered by the man in question, but for a few of them. Sweep a beer can under one of us and we just walk over it, however eco-conscious we might claim to be.

Destitute, Mr. Man is probably seen more as a nuisance – an eyesore to many of those couched inside here by their dress, Macbook Airs, hipsterality, mostly light skin tones, moneypurses, hubris.

The last thing I saw him do was, freshly-opened beer can in hand, come directly up to the window where I was facing and flick it with a thud. I looked up, his eyes meeting mine for a very sharp moment in time.

 

He was gone.

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