A Worm

I notice, from a cursory glance stage left, that Someone has made promises, one of which, in full facial hair fanfare, has been kept. But the restless public clamors for more. Where are the ukulele videos and the gourds of Uruguay and the pantsless lists? Do not dangle the bait if You don't intend on reeling us in. You fucking tease.

This Someone (call him javier) has also made a suggestion. This Someone has opened a can of worms. This is the first little bastard to wriggle his way free:


The man out in the cold hawking Real Change has been standing there for several half-hours. He is used to the elements--or maybe, relative to other hardships, cracked lips and numbed toes are no strife at all. He moves in spasms, or maybe he just spasms--it is hard to tell from furtive glances. He handles the silent rejections with aplomb, and the odd donations with grace. He barks out greetings to passersby who just keep passing by, and every so often, with a cracked-tooth smile of browns and yellows, he shares words with someone who must be a regular around these parts, a kind-hearted business suit or a fellow down-and-outer.

Perhaps they're simple pleasantries, perhaps more. It is hard to hear anything from behind these headphones.

Most pass by preoccupied or pretending to be. This is understood and accepted. He offers, they ignore. He offers, they refuse. He offers, they respond with polite regrets. And on and on.

And then here comes The Man in shiny black coat and pressed suit, a RoboPhone plastered to his ear, mouth motoring. He sees nothing of the world around him, and it appears to be doing him wonders. He closes in on the freezing vendor, who--force of habit maybe--offers. The Man ignores. Fair enough. But it goes one step further: one step of his shiny, polished shoe, coming down hard on top of the vendor's own ill-protected foot, heel-on-toe. Maybe some bones cracked, I don't know; it's hard to hear anything from behind these headphones.

But you don't need to hear shit to see the vendor leap into the air, a movement quite unlike anything he's managed before, and you don't need to hear shit to see the words his mouth forms, or at whose back they're aimed. But still The Man presses on, never breaking stride, yap-yap-yapping into his RoboPhone.

And now more spasms, interspersed between anguished one-footed hops, more vitriol and one particularly pointed finger. Disregarding the proportion of the response, it is easy to take sides from behind these headphones; I'm rooting for Real Change. I see The Man approach the corner. I raise a hand to speak--and then he turns, slightly, over his shoulder, perhaps sensing something trying to break through to him, some element of what could this possibly be, humanity?

As he glances backward he steps one foot down into the crosswalk. A taxi swoops by at full taxi speed, ever so close to pancaking The Man, his pressed suit, his RoboPhone, his polished shoes, his shiny black coat. Quite a mess he would have made.

Justice is a game of inches.