Sunday, May 27, 2018

angel headed hipsters

There was blood. Goddamn, there was so much blood. I had to admit, the fucker deserved it. The two fighting caused a crowd to form of both bewildered tourists and cheering, fist pumping bums. Elston roared in crazed fury as he swung one lightning fast blow after another while the one who took the blunt of his blows equally screamed, more of gurgled mercy than alcohol induced rage.
It began earlier as Elston and I stumbled toward the Sunshine Rescue Mission to eat lunch. We previously finished a bottle of Wild Turkey along with two joints at his camp under the shadow of the Lowell Observatory. Elston lay on top of his gray semen stained sleeping bag and blew solid plumes of smoke down toward his unbuttoned crotch and when his dork would pop up out from the heady fumes, he would rasp, “Abracadabra!” The silliness of it caused me to laugh my face crimson.
Anyway, we plodded down the mountain through downtown Flagstaff with myself disdainfully leering at every goddamn tourist who met my bloodshot gaze. The super positive square as hell white people here are as annoying as fuck. One more chipper asshole in khaki shorts and pastel polo shirt who wished me a "happy memorial day" I'm breaking their far too white teeth! Well, I digress, we make it to the mission and already there was a long line which pissed us both off. The unfortunate thing about being a hobosexual in this small ass berg is you constantly come in contact with the same sad sacks day in and day out no matter where you wind up. Depresses the fuck out of you.
Standing in line, Elston and I silently waited in the chilly wind (does it ever get warm here?) for the chow line door to open when this old drunk as fuck Indian swished up to us and began a vindictive tirade toward Elston on why hasn’t he been to his trailer at the rez lately, why hasn’t he called, why hasn’t he returned all the money he had borrowed. The scrawny Indian queen stood shivering and baying like a wounded sheep as Elston remained stoic, his head drooped, glaring at the filthy pavement. The queen paused in his berating tirade and a squinting eye gave me the once over.
“Who the hell is this?” He hissed, hand on shapeless hip in low-riding faded jeans, the other clasping a filthy shopping bag bulging with containers of donated hygiene products. He possessed the classical Indian features of high cheek bones, slitted eyes, but held that pouty mouth common to all bitchy faggots the world over. His graying hair was long and pulled in a ponytail which extended to his lower back.
“He’s a friend. Leave him alone.” Elston warned, his voice an almost inaudible whisper.
“Oh, another silver tongued devil? When will you get it through your thick skull that nothing good comes from associating with the white man? They destroy everything they touch.”
I admit, I had to agree with him on that one.
The older Native American had his ah-ha moment and realized what was going on between us. His remarks – solely focused on Elston – became cattier and more vicious. This continued during lunch. When we sat at a table to devour, strictly from the munchies, our reheated pepperoni pizza and chicken wings, the old Indian plopped at our table and continued his diatribe. We couldn’t eat our meal fast enough. As a fact, the asinine and petty verbal assault continued outside on the front patio. I stood in the cold sun as Elston nonchalantly sat on a metal bench smoking a cigarette and chatting with a fellow hobo (in an attempt to curb his anger, I suspect) but the old guy kept it up out on the sidewalk through the iron bars of the gate.
As quick as lightning, Elston bolted up, ran through the entrance and cracked a fist into the man’s square jaw. The older Indian reeled, stumbled backwards all the while hollering, “Stop it! Stop it! I was only kidding!”
My young friend did in fact not stop, but continued a rapid fire of fists. Blood flung left and right from the old man’s busted lip and nose spraying the wall and pavement. He struggled to defend himself in vain. Within moments, four squad cars careened up to the corner and Flagstaff’s finest poured out of their squad cars. Elston was violently thrown onto the ground, uniformed knee firmly on his neck, and handcuffed. After several esoteric questions by the police (the old man bleeding a cascading stream of crimson blood onto the curb all the while bleating, “I din do nuthin”) Without even a word, Elston was roughly tossed into the back of a squad car and whisked away to be booked.
And so, I am stuck, once again, alone in this no-where town with nary the person to converse with but slack jawed burnt biscuits and shabby train hopping hobos. I think this Friday it may be to my advantage to lay tracks for a different local…

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