Dreamed of Sarah-Katherine again, which is a habit I need to break. And then, wide awake at 1:00 in the morning, I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I put on some pants and shoes for a pleasant but shivery walk around the block a dozen times, just for some clearheaded thinking time.
From Pathetic Life #21
Saturday, Feb. 17, 1996
There was plenty to think and worry and wonder about. There always is, in the middle of the night.
After the walk, I never got back to sleep, so I needed plenty of caffeine to make it through the day on Telegraph.
Working next to the medical marijuana table, Buzz asked me to watch his stand while he went to the john. I sold two pot-infused rice crispie treats while he was gone, so arrest me, I’m finally, actually a drug dealer.
♦ ♦ ♦
Someone left a sack of semi-stale donuts on top of a trash can and walked away, and I was there quicker than the flies. Gave the donuts a closer examination at my table. There were half a dozen, and they looked good to me. “Day-old” is the term, or maybe two or three days old, but still perfectly edible.
I gave one to Hate Man cuz I love that guy, but ate the other five myself. That was lunch — three chocolate, two glazed, plus the sandwiches I’d packed.
♦ ♦ ♦
Two true believers frowned at me and the table, and here we go again. They asked if I understood the meaning of the Jesus fish, which is a conversation I’ve had a thousand times on the Ave, so instead of arguing, this time I heard them out, and gave them what they wanted. I pretended to listen earnestly, as they prattled on about Jesus and shared a quote from Revelations.
When they asked why I was selling sacrilege on the sidewalk, I wanted to give a ridiculous answer, so with a straight face I said, “I was desperate. It was either sell these awful fish, or sell myself in prostitution.” That’s ludicrous, of course — nobody’d pay 79¢ for a blow job from me — but apparently, once you believe in Jesus you’ll believe anything. They believed me, and lying was more fun than arguing.
One of them suggested a word of prayer, and we used my fish stand as an altar. Three men kneeled, two men prayed, one man struggled not to laugh.
They invited me to a prayer meeting at their church, and I promised I’d be there. We shook hands, they insisted on a group hug, and then they walked away and I returned to the business of blasphemy.
♦ ♦ ♦
Later, cam a weird almost-argument, though.
On fish duty, I sit at the table and say “Fish” once or twice every minute, all day. That’s my sales pitch. Today, one of the hundreds of times I said “Fish,” a middle-aged white woman happened to be passing by, and she stopped and scowled.
“What did you call me?” she said.
“What?”
“You called me a bitch.” Her eyes were blazing, but you could’ve driven a truck through my mouth. Anyone reading this zine knows I’m an asshole, but I’m not the kind of asshole who’d sit at a table and call strangers names.
“I didn’t call you anything, lady. I said ‘fish’. I say ‘fish’ all day.”
“Oh,” she said, but she still seemed skeptical so I performed an extended ‘fish’ chant for her: “Fish. Fish. We got fish here.”
Mostly convinced, she semi-apologized and walked away. What a bitch.
♦ ♦ ♦
Maybe those donuts were a mistake. I felt queasy by quitting time, and rolling my cart away I started puking a pungent mix of donuts and coffee and sandwiches.
It was minor pukage, though. No violent heaves, only a series of liquid belches. Every half block or so, a few ounces came up, and after the first few times I didn’t even break stride, just faced sideways and spit it out like a lumpy loogie. No dribbles on my shirt, even.
Must’ve been quite the sight, though, me walking and heaving, and I do hope locals and visitors enjoyed the show.
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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