Eight of Cups

The City—LATER

I am walking down the street in the low rent district of the city, carrying, in addition to my usual satchel, a paper sack containing some beer and an adjustable wrench. Some policemen are nearby discussing that since it is carnival season again, almost everyone is bound to be carrying or looking for drugs. I shove the beer and wrench into my satchel.Suddenly my bag seems very heavy and conspicuous. Though containing nothing illegal, I’m sure the cops would find it suspicious if they searched me.

I try to look nonchalant as I walk down the busy sidewalk, heavy book bag swinging. I am consciously trying to look as if I am on a lazy Sunday morning promenade or something, but I am sure I come off very deliberate and ill-at-ease. Perhaps I should head down to the river for a stroll?

At that thought, I blunder through some children chalking a hopscotch board on the sidewalk. I am nervous around kids; I haven’t been exposed to too many and my Andrea is unable to have any in her condition.

One, two, three.  I hop the grid.

See?, I think to myself, I’m not a creep, kids.

Four, five six, seven.

At eight my hop almost lands me on a pair of legs strewn across the sidewalk. Someone is laying on eight. Lazy number 8.  I look up to find the legs belong to the Sailor, who is lying, blubbering against a cement stoop.

“Awful! Awful!” he mutters. He still wears his old red robe.  Now open and scandalously showing his faded boxers and wife beater to the neighborhood kids.

“Hey, Sailor Lou! What’s so awful?”

He clutches his chest.

“Sick! So sick!”

Concerned I kneel to look him over. “Sick like a heart attack or a stroke? Or sick like drunk and hung-over?”