Friday, February 20, 2009

There are signs all over town yelling about dope, God and Mexico. I say "yelling" because the penmanship is manic. They are 8.5/11 and the ink is black and smeary. They are photocopied on a variety of colors.

During the same walk on which I saw the man with the wooden hand, I also saw a short, garbage wearing man as he charged down the block. It took me a second to realize that he wasn't wearing trash but signs similar in design, penmanship and rambling content to the ones I had seen around. They were stapled or taped to his coat and pantlegs, and one was fastened to his skull clap like a billboard on his forehead.

Yesterday he was sitting in the corner of a Starbucks continuosly talking to himself. He had a stick (or placard or maybe an umbrella) covered in signs. One of them mentioned the Starbucks. After I ordered my coffee I stood by his table to hear what he was saying. I realized his signs didn't yell but, in fact, mumbled. His words had no time for context or sense and occasionally he lapsed into pure gibberish, sounds mimicking words but not a part of any common discourse.

When I could understand it seemed like he was recounting the same event in different tenses. He would say "he dropped it" and then "look at him drop it" and "those Spanish guys, they're dropping it, and I'm picking it up."

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