Pt. 2: Big Country, Uffie, Fat Jesus…..

I walked toward this huge drink of water, flagging him down with a half pint of Jim Beam. “You look like you could use a drink” I smiled, to which he gave me a cautious grin and swallowed a long pull from my bottle. He thanked me and told me everyone called him Big Country while I smiled and loaded up my glass pipe so me and Big Country could have a small palaver. His voice was soft with a slight accent that sound Oklahoman. He appeared to have a poke of snuff in is front lip and thanked me again, this time for the pot.

“What’s the deal with the plastic bottle” I asked.

He flexed his eyes and explained it to me. “I want a cop to come over here and give me a ticket for pissing on the sidewalk in public. Then when he starts to write the ticket, I pull this tiny bottle out from under my stomach and he cain’t do nothin. It’s just a trick on them. I want someone to put it on YouTube.”

We talked a bit longer and I surmised Big Country was a daywalker, one of those mutant cross-breed inhabitants here that wasn’t in it for the ’cause’, but wasn’t a homeless street drunk who just needed a place to rest. These daywalkers are all about harassing the cops-in fact they’re more brutal to police than the true Occupy Zombies-but they have no directive, no political focus or concerns. They can recite the same protest mantra like mynah birds using the 99 percent slogans, but use them as justification for any actions they choose to take. Piss in the street? Call it a protest. Civil unrest is a means (and sometimes it’s actually effective) to show disfavor with laws, bad government, etc. but if you do random acts that are reminiscent of something you’d witness on St. Patrick’s night at an Irish bar, what political purpose does this serve? They’re like the drunk friend who won’t go home. The sad thing about it was, my daughter, Uffie, is all about the cause. She desperately wants a future for herself that still holds a middle class, that allows a person to make a decent working wage and able to afford health care, that provides opportunity for a better tomorrow. She and I both met a variety of zombies, daywalkers and true derelicts. My favorite was this scruffy thin guy drinking PBR singing that classic protest song by the Beatles, Eight Days a Week. Priceless. Uffie met a small young man that looked like a leprechaun with really tiny hands they call Fat Jesus. I met a gent named Al who relayed a nefarious plan the protesters set in motion to make a certain police officer’s life pure hell as payback for some earlier bust. Old Mama was this lady everyone down there knew who let my daughter hold the FUCK THE POLICE sign for a while, Ratboy with his skateboard, Ebby looking for smokes-a plethora of beasts out here of every shape and size. Still, I don’t see a plan in focus. This is not a protest this is a new shire, our own third world village pleading for smokes and more cardboard. The protest movement I first ran into down on Colfax and Broadway nearly a year ago is souring like old milk. I’m beginning to feel as if somewhere in the dark recess of the park lies the dying body of Kurtz uttering “the horror…the horror…” Where will this all lead?



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