FatKidsLie

There’s this guy on my block who’s not really a traffic cop but he directs traffic. And wears a uniform.

He wears a red windbreaker that was a promo item for a now-defunct web startup from the late 1990’s. A baseball cap that he’s spraypainted neon green. He uses a red bandanna stapled to a backscratcher as a flag.

The guy is old, like, 80 or so. He says he was in the mafia, but nobody believes him. Even though he talks to himself. ALL the time. He talks in nonsensical mutterings, often complaining that people don’t follow his directions for where they’ve gotta go… Like he’ll tell me to cross the street even though I might not want to because I’m going around the corner and I just plain don’t need to… Or when the cars on my block decide to follow the traffic lights rather than this little old man with no teeth who smells like… well.. an old man who needs to be taken care of.

He was really upset this morning. He was sitting on the bench on the corner by the church’s parking lot muttering to himself about how they closed the street yesterday because of the street fair/block party and they didn’t tell him and now he looks like a foolish old fart because he was out there trying to direct the police.

At one point the guys setting up the stage for the bands told him to get lost after he came out and tried to get them to move it to the parking lot… where they were told they couldn’t set up by the guys making the block party/ street fair.

He had to go home, and he was crying a little. I don’t know if he’s sad (as in “upset”) or if he’s sad (“pathetic”). I don’t really much care.

My biggest concern is that my job is going to melt my brain to the point that I turn into him. Only fat. And hairy. And bald. That is my fear. That may be my destiny.

Stay tuned.

I’ve been meaning to write about this for weeks but I keep getting caught up on doing school work and cleaning up my apartment and walking my dog and earning enough money to buy malt liquor to dull the pain and shame of my life.

Anyway, there’s a lady that walks around at night playing a saw. Yes. A saw.

Like the kind that lumberjacks use.

… I think I’ve gotta move out of this neighborhood.

I’m assuming that she’s in a band. Or something. because there’s a guy that walks around with her playing bongos and singing opera with her.

The first time I saw her was coming out of the coffee shop across the street when it was closing for the night. She was in a floral mumu, hair-curlers and galoshes. He was wearing a tuxedo and a straw hat. They played a wonderful adaptation of David Bowie’s Man Who Sold The World. But i think he was singing in Esperanto.

The other night it was warm out, but not warm enough for the air conditioner. I was awoken to the sound of the screechy saw, and a harmonica. They then started playing a medley of 1980’s Saturday morning cartoon songs. I watched them as they entered the hipster bar on the corner. They couldn’t have been in there more than one minute before i heard them arguing with the bouncer.

I asked around and, the bartender told me that she got into a fight with the DJ that was playing that night. She wanted the stage and when he wouldn’t relinquish the floor, she started cutting his cables with her saw.

The other day I was working late, getting home at 1am. I saw her sitting on a park bench by the baptist church’s parking lot. Playing a sad sad song. Humming to herself. Not even in the same tune that she was playing in. Her bandmate/husband/brother (maybe one of those, or a combination of those who knows) was sleeping on the other bench next to her. He woke up, looked at me and threw a bottle of Aunt Jemima’s pancake syrup at me.

As i ran away I saw him pouring a sort of borderline of syrup on the ground. The next day I saw that he poured syrup all over the benches. Just like how a dog or a cat marks their territory.

I haven’t seen them in a while. Most of the crazies in my neighborhood stick around, and I can sort of get an idea of where they live or spend their days when they’re not being your average street creepies. These people? Not so much.

They change outfits, even though they keep with the same uniforms: I’ve counted at least 7 different Mumus, 4 different galoshes and 9 different straw hats, so I’m fairly certain that they’re not homeless. I think that there’s a possibility that they are guerilla street performers. Or maybe time travelers.

But I miss them. They were a crazy noisebrigade mariachi couple. With maple syrup defense systems.