What is there to shout about?
Once again the raving of the mentally ill has stimulated my motivation to speak out against the forces of tyranny and oppression. After waiting at a customer service counter at the local Best Buy to return a malfunctioning DVD recorder I left the store with a general discontent with everything bearing the colors blue and yellow. Stepping out upon the liberally salted side walk I noticed a man with heavy beard and acridity pacing beside a luggage carrier, laden with various sized cardboard boxes and stained blankets, and a filthy white bucket labeled, in poor penmanship, "Gulf Veteren."
A passerby, not holding the misspelling against the man, dropped change into the bucket producing an ear perking sound that signaled that the vagabond was profiting well from the post-holiday return season. Despite his lucrative venture his behavior gave the impression that he wasn't pleased with his state of affairs. His feverish pacing was accompanied by convoluted gesticulation and an almost incoherent ranting to no one in particular.
As though telepathically sensing fear, his flashing eyes focused upon a woman furnishing a microscopic hand bag and a pristine-white, fur collared jacket, exiting the store with trepid and rapid tiny steps. Her eyes fluttered in the vagrant's direction as his meandering pacing took a more defined direction towards her. Her path embraced the tangent as she tried to avoid his interception. His ranting increased in volume and tone as he followed beside her as she circled back to the source.
He abruptly disengaged his coupling of opposing poles when the automatic door slid open, releasing a gush of warm air and allowing the frail creature of blonde hair, red lips and pale skin to find sanctuary behind the metal framing and tempered glass. He was now shouting drawing attention from within and causing a backup of alarmed consumers anxious to move on to the next store.
In a heroic fashion, a middle-aged Midwestern stereotype, complete with grey mustache and pot belly, accosted the derelict bellowing the question, "What is there to shout about?" An unintelligible bark was retorted and the hero departed leaving the vagabond to return to his frantic pacing and raving.
Noticing me standing at the curb subtly watching him, he paused his dance and with eyes twitching he brought his hand to his face and evened out his beard. Then, in an unexpected display of sanity, he bowed, brushing his darkened fingers across the salted cement below. When he rose I tilted my baseball cap, bringing a gum lined smile to his prematurely aged face.
I walked toward the parking lot, dodging monstrous SUV's, leather filled luxury cars and giant trucks driven by petite women barely able to see over the wheel. Looking back to the Best Buy entrance I noticed that our little performer had found a seat beside his cardboard crate and plastic barrel. People were once again streaming to and fro totting plastic bags. By the time I drove my car around passing the entrance the vagrant was passively being lifted to his feet by men in blue three-buttoned shirts with yellow collars. Behind the sliding doors I spotted the pristine nymph pensively watching the bum being escorted beyond the concrete perimeter of the store.
The clashing blue and yellow were never so well placed.
A passerby, not holding the misspelling against the man, dropped change into the bucket producing an ear perking sound that signaled that the vagabond was profiting well from the post-holiday return season. Despite his lucrative venture his behavior gave the impression that he wasn't pleased with his state of affairs. His feverish pacing was accompanied by convoluted gesticulation and an almost incoherent ranting to no one in particular.
As though telepathically sensing fear, his flashing eyes focused upon a woman furnishing a microscopic hand bag and a pristine-white, fur collared jacket, exiting the store with trepid and rapid tiny steps. Her eyes fluttered in the vagrant's direction as his meandering pacing took a more defined direction towards her. Her path embraced the tangent as she tried to avoid his interception. His ranting increased in volume and tone as he followed beside her as she circled back to the source.
He abruptly disengaged his coupling of opposing poles when the automatic door slid open, releasing a gush of warm air and allowing the frail creature of blonde hair, red lips and pale skin to find sanctuary behind the metal framing and tempered glass. He was now shouting drawing attention from within and causing a backup of alarmed consumers anxious to move on to the next store.
In a heroic fashion, a middle-aged Midwestern stereotype, complete with grey mustache and pot belly, accosted the derelict bellowing the question, "What is there to shout about?" An unintelligible bark was retorted and the hero departed leaving the vagabond to return to his frantic pacing and raving.
Noticing me standing at the curb subtly watching him, he paused his dance and with eyes twitching he brought his hand to his face and evened out his beard. Then, in an unexpected display of sanity, he bowed, brushing his darkened fingers across the salted cement below. When he rose I tilted my baseball cap, bringing a gum lined smile to his prematurely aged face.
I walked toward the parking lot, dodging monstrous SUV's, leather filled luxury cars and giant trucks driven by petite women barely able to see over the wheel. Looking back to the Best Buy entrance I noticed that our little performer had found a seat beside his cardboard crate and plastic barrel. People were once again streaming to and fro totting plastic bags. By the time I drove my car around passing the entrance the vagrant was passively being lifted to his feet by men in blue three-buttoned shirts with yellow collars. Behind the sliding doors I spotted the pristine nymph pensively watching the bum being escorted beyond the concrete perimeter of the store.
The clashing blue and yellow were never so well placed.
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