6:22 p.m. - Feb. 27, 2002
Angel Blue Eyes
I just had another sudden brush with an interesting, somewhat troubled, definitely filthy young homeless man. He had the most beautiful eyes. Haunting, beautiful blue eyes.
What is it about homeless men with beautiful eyes? What is it about me that attracts these individuals? Maybe it�s not so much that I attract them � maybe it�s more that there is something inside me that wants to understand them, or at least, to experience them. Maybe there�s a light that blinks inside me, a neon sign buried in my chest that is only visible to them? Maybe it reads, �I will talk to you.�
I don�t COMPLETELY seek them out. But, I do commit the forbidden transgression of making eye contact with them. Oh god, I can hear my ex-husband now, �Don�t look at �em! Don�t look at �em!� Sociology Experiment 101: Make eye contact with a homeless person and see if they don�t approach you. (Go ahead - try it)
But I digress.
Back to my meeting with Blue Eyes. I was sitting outside in the sun, having just finished my lunch, which consisted of cherry yogurt, grape juice, and two cigarettes. I had bought one extra yogurt and I planned on eating it later. Seems I�m not getting enough live and active cultures of Acidophilus in my diet. Anyways� I was marveling at the unusually green and way-too-perfect lawn outside my office building when I saw him. And he saw me. And he saw me seeing him. Which can only mean one thing: APPROACH.
He asked me if I had any food. By golly, I did. I offered him my extra yogurt and a spoon. He sat down next to me and began to eat. I reminded him that the fruit�s on the bottom. That�s when I noticed how filthy his hands were.
He looked up at me and asked, �So, what ya�ll gonna do here?�
Not knowing what he meant, but assuming he meant Continental, I answered, �Hopefully, make a lot of money.�
�Yeah? How much money?�
I then realized that I was probably speaking to a little boy trapped inside a young man�s body. I answered, �I dunno � millions and millions.�
�Wow, that�s a lotta money.�
He asked me where we fly. I told him, briefly, �All over Europe. Latin America.�
�Wow! Where don�t you fly?�
�I suppose Australia.�
�I wouldn�t wanna go there. That�s where they keep all those raccoons.� He thought about it and then corrected himself, �Kangaroos. Kangaroos. They�ll beat you up. I don�t wanna be with them Kangaroos.�
I told him that I had heard that Australia was kinda nice, having never been there myself.
�I dunno. All that wilderness and stuff. It�s mainly just for animals.�
When I was finished with my cigarette, I wished him a good day. �Take care of yourself. Be good.�
�Oh, I will. I will.�
I jumped down off of the granite wall that I had been sharing with him. I began to walk towards the door when he called after me, �Pinky, she sure is doing good.�
Puzzled, I asked who Pinky was. He looked at me like I had just crawled out from under a rock.
�You haven�t heard about Pinky? That girl they had locked up for three years? They finally let her out.�
Thinking this was just another bit of news on television that I just haven�t heard, I enquired, �Why�d they lock her up?�
�They locked her up. They thought she was crazy. She went to hell. Me, I didn�t go to hell, I went to Heaven.�
I told him that I thought that that was a good thing.
He continued, �Yeah. They let me out cuz I�m �sposed to take care a her. I�m her protector or something. Fast, like Speed Racer. Can�t see me in the dark. She�s gonna be alright, but she may be a little crazy. She ain�t zactly normal.�
I smiled at him and asked, �What exactly is normal?�
