Christians are often offended by our semi-sacrilegious fish, but today I sold an Evolution fish to a chatty guy who told me, “I’m a Christian, but I also believe in evolution.”
From Pathetic Life #15
Thursday, August 3, 1995
I had to stare at him and think for five seconds to think of something to say in response. “Adam and Eve were just two fish in the sea, eh?”
He smiled, but I thought my dumb joke had cost the sale when he claimed he had no cash. I can’t take credit cards, of course — I’m on the sidewalk, don’t even have electricity, so I pointed him to the cash machines up the street, and he walked away. Never to return, I thought, but he was back in a few minutes, out of breath from jogging, almost running back to my table.
“You didn’t have to hurry,” I said. “I’m here all day.”
He laughed and said, “I am in a hurry. My wife and two kids are waiting in the car, and I only stopped in Berkeley to see my dealer and score some weed.”
That’s what we call a California-style Christian.
♦ ♦ ♦
A teenage girl didn’t understand the fish, so I explained as always about the persecuted Christians of ancient Rome. She didn’t care, of course, and really neither do I. She didn’t buy anything from me, but she asked, “You know the area, right? Do you know where I can get my labia pierced?”
We weren’t talking about anything remotely like that, so I don’t know why she asked me, unless she was kidding around and trying to shock the middle-aged fat guy.
I almost answered by just pointing at her groin and saying, “Somewhere down there,” but she was clearly underage, and I figured a crack like that might get me in trouble.
“Pierced?” I said instead. “That’s lightweight. Why don’t you get ’em tattooed?” She smiled and drifted away, maybe looking for a tattooist.
♦ ♦ ♦
Two pedestrians had an argument in the crosswalk, twenty feet from me and my table. I didn’t see what started it, didn’t look even when it got loud, because people scream all the time on the Ave. Eventually, though, enough already, I got borderline curious and turned to see.
It was a couple of twenty-something white men, one yelling at the other’s face, with what seemed like an inch of clearance between their noses. Anyone who gets that close to my face dang well better be about to kiss me nut they didn’t smooch.
One of them kept screaming a whole encyclopedia of insults, and the other just talked, so softly I couldn’t hear what he was saying. After a few minutes of the first guy screaming, the second guy smiled and shrugged and walked away. The screaming guy didn’t follow him, so the argument was over.
I admired that second dude’s patience. What better way to antagonize someone who’s screaming at you, than by refusing to respond? I couldn’t do that. I’m a screamer.
Then the second guy, the talker, came walking past my table, so I said, “Hey, man, that was a very zen performance.” He smiled at me, but didn’t say anything, and his eyes were glowing. Clearly he was high on something, and it seemed like a terrific high.
Just another day on Telegraph Avenue.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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