the vagrant
'Damn clay faces' he mutters. 'Always looking down thier noses at people'
He gathers his well worn canvas bag, and his daily take of beer ,and soda
cans, in a plastic sack. Throwing the lot of his belongings carelessly over
his good shoulder, he starts his daily treck to the recycling joint.
'Better hurry ,them worthless bastards dont care none if ol' Jackie aint
got no beer tonight' He is alone in his world. Constantly mumbling negative
opinions of everybody he sees.He never talks directly to anybody, and
just when you think he may be addressing you, you ready your response
and as if he has the timing of a cougar hunting dinner, he rambles on about
people who have haircuts like yours, and something about silver spoons, and
how his luck is to blame for his way of life. His other words are lost in the
roar of city life as he walks past you as if you are less than nothing, not
even worth a glance as he moves past people on the street, scratching some with
the grime that has collected and fossilized on his thrift store army jacket.
'These fucking clay bastards.Runnin around like they really have to be somewhere'
He bears left on sixth, which is odd because theres not many people on this street
usually. He likes to frequent more bustling areas so he can find more reasons why
he should loathe the people who he cannot exist without. Now its clear why he chose this route
today. 'Damn sissies always stickin their noses somewhere they don't belong' As he nears
it's what he thought, a fund raiser for the less fortunate. 'These bastards dont know, nobody
knows like ol' jackie, I aint' never had nuthin cause these bastards wont let me have nuthin well they
aint nuthin, I could have that stuff too if I wanted' ,he approaches a man handing out care packs and ungratefully
almost angrily siezes a bag,and with out a word of gratitude, he lumbers off 'I don't need this goddamn shit I just
want to let those bastards know Jackie boy'll take whatever he wants' Jack stubles off down an alley where he will
ultimately die in a drunken slumber. It's too bad, he was'nt always like that. The first ten years after he got a degree
from Harvard he actually smiled, and laughed with Saraphine his lovely wife, and their six year old twins Jessie ,and Jaime
but that night coming back froma day on the sand an 18 wheeler hauling a load of brand new BMW's took it all away. From this he
never recovered. He died last April with 35 cents in his pocket, a hatred that had no bounds ,and a long since forgotten bank account
with just over $850,000.00.
