The spot where I used to sit on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley was in close proximity to a pub where Cal students would often become intoxicated. I usually left before this could happen, but occasionally a drunken fellow would emerge in the daytime.
One day I was sitting there quietly, lamenting as usual the fact that too many people were approaching me telling me where the organized meals were, where the shelters were, how to get government “crazy money,” and so forth. It tended to depress me, because I obviously knew all that stuff already. What I wanted was some cash and some food for my stomach, so I could smile at them before they moved on.
But then this drunken guy came out of the pub, even though it was only about two in the afternoon. He was making loud abusive comments toward women, and generally seemed pretty disgusting. Of course, I probably seemed pretty disgusting too — just the sight of me sitting there — even though I wasn’t saying anything. (As you know, if you’ve been reading me, my whole gig was to never open my mouth, and simply sit there, holding up an informative sign.)
Eventually, the young man staggered his way toward me, and stopped in front of my sign, staring at it silently, as though dumbfounded.
Lifting up his eyes after what seemed an eternity, he then began to stare directly at me for an even longer eternity. Finally, he spoke.
“Get a job, man!! Get off your butt! Get a hustle!!!”
He then staggered off of my spot just as sure as he’d staggered onto it. I watched him stagger away, and once he was out of sight, I turned my head and saw another young man. This new fellow, obviously more sober, was laughing. Whether he was laughing at me, at him, with me, or with him — I cannot say. Whatever the case, he apparently found the situation amusing.
I decided to break my rule at that point. (That is to say, I opened my mouth.)
“You know what?” I said.
“What?” he asked.
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