Gutter Punks and Fish Tacos

“Hey man, spare a dollar, help me get laid?” Came from somewhere near
my feet. The gutter punk was speaking to me. Dressed in his individual uniform of
dirty carhart overalls with various seditious messages scrolled in black felt tip
and dreadlocks, the gutter punk looked up at my expectantly, perhaps with a touch of
mischief.

I smiled at him. He was supposed to be scary and intimidating, self styled to be
offensive to the squares that he’d encounter along this stretch of this street and
this time of night. I continued smiling and didn’t say a word, just looked down at
him and his raggedy ass encampment, set up at my train stop.

“Smiles work too man,” he said, somewhat less confidently, perhaps an edge of
nervousness in his voice. Card board box, dirty rolled up mats and blankets, and of
course his trusty road dog asleep at his side. This kid was transient punk, getting
by on his wits and the kindness of strangers, and there were thousands of them in
the city. This city is blessed to be at the intersection of a north-south
interstate, and an east-west interstate, also numerous cross country rail lines.
Throw in the mild climate and friendly population, and this city is pretty much the
Promised Land for transient gutter punks, much like the one sitting in front of me,
still grinning, though now much more uneasily.

I smiled, “If I killed you, would anyone know you were gone?” And reached into my
pocket, fishing around for what I was looking for. The bum looked up at me with
apprehension if not outright fear. Living on the street had taught him that the
world was not always a nice place, and even Portland had its fair share of weirdos.
Weird, but not in that cute, ironic hipster way. Not the sort of weird that makes
the human interest papers or the type that you talk about over drinks with your
friends. Not the laughing, smiling, artistic type of weird.

There were also those darker types. The ones who stabbed bums as they slept under
bridges, who lit their tents on fire while they were inside, still asleep. Sadistic
train security who set their German Shepards loose, and laughed when the dogs tore
flesh from bone. There was also that side of life, and the fear in this bum’s eyes
betrayed his notion that he’d met that type of weird, one of those people our
parents warned us about.

I smiled down at him a little longer, and dropped a dollar bill into his cup. It
was dinner time, and I was hungry for fish tacos.

Sean Brown
writes here.

Tagged as: bums, dollar bills, Fear, fish tacos, gutter punks, Homeless, mentally ill, Portland, Street, Violence