At the Old Book Store

Outside of the old bookstore, Chicago was happening.

“Drink poetry! Read beer!” The wild haired man screeched as he snubbed out a slim cigar against the patina door frame and shifted on his tip-toes towards me. He had oddly perfect posture hidden like a secret beneath a soiled, previously tan trench coat and matching pants, both 2 sizes too big.

“Got any change? 17 cents? Come on! 17 cents?”

“Nah, man. Sorry. I don’t.” It was a lie. I’ve been thinking up ways to respond to the beggars without formulating a lie. From watching the tourists and lawyers on Michigan Avenue, I surmised that ignoring was an effective tactic; but I just can’t seem to bring myself to not respond to another human being who is speaking to me.

And tonight, someone would ask me, what is something most people don't know about you? Only one of the answers will be divulged hereto. I like my body size mostly because when I am feeling punchy (ok, scared; don't let my mad dog face fool you), I feel just as massive as most of the shadowy men passing through my turf on a eerily still night. For instance, tonight, a man, crouched under the neon at the corner store with his buddy, says, "Man! She wouldn't even charge you a brick for that mouth." I puff myself up, wide as I can be and try to look huge.

But, back to yesterday. And yesterday the city clicked open like a switch blade.

She emerged from the hyptnotic tenticles of the old bookstore with a small handful of paperbacks. We thumbed through our books and decided on pizza and ice cream. Overhead, the Blue Angels ripped a hole into the horizon.

“I hate those things. All I can think is, ‘that is the last thing people hear before we drop our b*mbs.’”

My body wouldn't protect me from one of those. It would be demolished. The president would save me, surely. Won't he? Won't he? Won't he?

Who will save them?