SEXY Blog, 2011

Welcome to the new, improved, On The Move blog. There are a few new features to peruse at your leisure that I'd like to bring your attention to:

1st- There is a new "Welcome" tab that you can read if you so choose.

2nd- You can now register on the right-hand sidebar to receive emails when I update my blog.

3rd- Also on the right-hand sidebar, you can become one of my "followers" (weird...but it would be cool to see who reads this).

4th- There is a new tab called "Writing Projects" where I have put some stories that are of a different genre than the travel writings. All of the pieces I have put more work into than a normal blog post. Whether that makes them better or not, I have no idea, but I'd love to hear comments and feedback on any of the stories as it would greatly help me grow as a writer.

Finally- I have a new post from Japan, entitled "Typhoon" just below.

Thank you for taking time to read some of the stories from my life. I greatly appreciate it.

Sincerely,
Josh

Typhoon

The people had heard of the typhoon days in advance. It was on their televisions as a digitally rendered spiral mass. On the radio, they said to batten down the hatches, or something of the like in Japanese. People talked about it in the streets when the clouds moved in lackadaisically grey and heavy, and the first rain drops appeared.

There were only so many preparations for the people to make, and they became less dire in a land that was accustomed to the monthly natural disaster. It was an earthquake in March, another in July, mudslides and flooding in August. And now: typhoon.

School stayed in session. When the first winds picked up, it lashed raindrops against second graders in yellow slickers. The children marched in a line from the bus to their classroom. The teachers closed up the windows and the rain became background chatter to their daily lessons. By lunch time, the indoor world and the outdoor world were of entirely different spirit. In clean, dry shirts and ties, teachers looked out from the protection of their rooms and watched trees bending and swaying sideways. The rain fell from all directions and sometimes leapt toward the windows, like a horror movie ghost, only to be broken up on the glass pane and turned to rivulets drawn down by gravity. There was nothing the people could do but wait out the storm.

***

The rice paddies had already started turning golden brown before the rains. It would be harvest time in a month or so. The grains were growing heavier and were bending the rice stalks into a reverent bow. No longer sprightly, green adolescents, the stalks had matured into middle age and bore the weight of their lives with quiet dignity. When the rain picked up and the earth dampened, the stalks were not affected. They were firmly rooted in the dark earth.

When the dirt became viscous and turned into mud, a soft pair of bulging eyes, no bigger than fish eggs, surfaced to see what the commotion was all about. The soft membranes blinked, checked the paddy for dangers and slowly surfaced, revealing a blunt arrow of a head, and tiny forelegs. The frog inhaled thanks to the rain, silently praising it. Moisture! He blinked his bulging eyes again, clearing any mud from them, and then creaked a noise more fit for a creature fifty times his size, a stentorian, deep croaking that called to his friends. For a moment, silence. Then the responses came. Other frogs chimed in with their croaks: “The rain is here! The rain is here!” The responses came in the hundreds, from all parts of the paddy, from all the rice paddies stretching down the mountain valley. They rejoiced in the rain which was now becoming stronger still and turning the paddy rows into a muddy playground.

The frogs delighted in the wet earth and set to leaping about. No predators would be around in such a storm. For the frogs however, the weather was perfect. They jumped above the bending rice stalks, into the wind and lashing rain of the typhoon. Then they came splashing down softly into the new pools of black water, all the while continuing their croaks. Swimming beetles and unfortunate grasshoppers would find themselves hopelessly flailing about in the pools, and the frogs found opportunity for a feast. In an instant, they would send their sticky tongues out like a whip, grabbing the defenseless creatures and gobbling them up. The frogs found mates with which to celebrate the rain, and leapt about together, chasing and flirting with one another. It was one of the few times when the frogs could play safely. They knew this, and they loved the rain for it.

In an hour’s time the rain had increased significantly. Now the pools poured into one another. The rice stalks tried their hardest to not uproot, though their heavy bounty was now dipping into the water. The frogs, who before found hills and banks to jump from, were now swimming about, looking for the reprieve of solid land. But there was none to be found. They were growing fatigued from swimming. Though their powerful hind legs were made for such sport, the deluge became too much. Streams and rivers formed, threatening to carry the frogs downstream. They began to yearn for the mud again, for a place to bury themselves away and rest. The hundreds of frogs needed to escape the deep pools and rushing water; they had to find higher ground where they could wait for the floods to cease.

***

Thunder cracked and roared down the mountain valley. There was no beginning or end from whence the rain came. Rather, it all chaotically spun about in the atmosphere and poured down on the earth. Hillsides were giving, and trees toppling over.

The elementary school students were being dismissed to the busses. Their rain hats were grabbed from their heads by the wind and were swallowed up into the dark storm. They entered the busses bewildered and silently watched the typhoon from behind the windows as they were driven off to their homes.

When night came, the teachers were still working diligently in their office. The storm had still not abated. A teacher packed up his things, told his colleagues to please drive safe in such terrible weather, and then darted to his car. He was soaked by the time he got in. With the engine catching and the wiper blades violently waving back and forth, he pulled onto the road and made his way home as quickly as possible. When there were not pools of water in the street, he could get up to sixty kilometers per hour, a good clip considering the conditions. It was enough to get him home as quickly as possible, so that he may dry off and sit by the heater.

There weren’t many cars on the countryside road. The headlights of the teacher’s car only illuminated a small triangle ahead of the vehicle. The teacher’s hope to get home quickly translated into a push on the accelerator and the car began barreling down the road, the rain crashing down upon it. The storm was still surging but it wasn’t as bad as before. The car moved faster, swerving around large puddles and careening into the small ones. The teacher would be home in twenty minutes at this rate, faster than he originally thought. Maybe he could make it in ten minutes.

The rain was almost stopping now. The speedometer moved to seventy, eighty. The teacher could almost feel the warmth of his heater at home; of his dry clothes. And then, too suddenly for the teacher to do anything about it, in the small triangle of light that the headlights cast upon the road, a leaping frog hurled himself in front of the car.

The teacher cringed at the sound of the small impact. But he didn’t slow, his resolve to get home growing stronger. A few seconds later, another frog leapt from the side of the road and landed in front of his left tire. The tiny bump it made could barely be felt by the teacher when the car ran over it. Just as a notion of surprise at hitting two frogs crept into the teachers head, the triangle of light, now moving at eighty three kilometers per hour, illuminated more tiny bodies leaping into it. For a millisecond the teacher could see their brightened bodies as if frozen in mid air. There must have been half a dozen of them. But he had no time to neither swerve nor avoid the inevitable collision. Every tiny, leaping body that the triangle of light picked up came to the same end: smashing violently against the car that charged down the wet road.

The sound began to rat-a-tat-tat from the front of the car and the teacher noticed that the frogs were leaping in front of him by the dozens. He slowed, but still not enough to stop the massacre. Every meter he progressed a new onslaught of bodies threw themselves in front of his vehicle. The teacher’s morality began taunting him. Every new thump to hit his car, every small bump that became muted under the tires, was a plea that he be merciful and stop his car. But he continued on. The horror of it was interminable. The teacher accelerated, hoping that the nightmare would end faster that way. The thumps and tiny crashes picked up their frequency. Instead of hearing rain drops hit the car now, it was frogs; hundreds of them. He accelerated still more. The faster he went, the quicker it would end. Soon he would be home by the heater, where he could wait out the storm in silence. With the belief that such an event had to end quickly, that there couldn’t possibly be more frogs, the teacher pressed on. But the thuds and crunches continued relentlessly, echoing in his ears, shaking his conscience. The debate in his head of whether he should stop or not was meaningless. What was the point when he had already hit so many? He weighed the pros against the cons of stopping, of waiting for all the frogs in the valley to pass. But still he continued on, his car plowing against more and more helpless creatures running the gauntlet of the road.

The triangle of light was a merciless picture show of the teacher’s callousness. If he would just stop, dozens would be saved, hundreds perhaps. But it had to end. Maybe a second more and it will end, he assured himself.

His assurance was met with only more thuds, which now he ignored. He had set his course. It was their own fault anyway. What the illuminated triangle at the front of the car revealed in all its frigid indifference, the darkness behind the car covered and left to be forgotten in the night.

Just get home. You’re almost there.

***

The heater in the teacher’s small apartment was nice and warm. He quickly changed out of his wet work clothes and into jeans and a soft, dry sweater. He drank tea to drown the last inklings of cold that his body had taken on and soon enough he had moved to his bed where the blankets enveloped him from chin to toe.

The rain had stopped completely. The teacher noticed the quiet. It sounded foreign and new against a day of constant storm. Just before the silence took hold of the teacher and carried him off to his dreams, it broke. Somewhere beyond his window, in the rice paddies of the mountain valley, a sound of croaking began.

Howdy, Sensei

Kawase-san is sixty years old. He sits in the agura position, crossed legged, on the tatami mats in his home in the Japanese countryside. Incense burns from plates on the floor, the smoke writhing and curling above his head. Shoji screen walls border the room. A low table hunches in the middle of the floor. Six sitting cushions are evenly distributed around the table. Kawase-san’s mustache is neatly trimmed, grey at the tips and black under his nose. The crow’s feet that branch out from his almond eyes extend past his temples, to his hairline. His features are kind and wise, his manner, patient and deliberate. He wears a dark red t-shirt with the words “Grand Canyon” printed on it.

I enter, eager to start learning Japanese. Kawase-san stands and I present him with a bottle of sake. I bow and say yoroshiku onegaishimasu, nice to meet you. He smiles with delight, bows, and begins to open the sake.

“Sumimasen Kawase-san, but I drove here.” I mime ‘driving’. “Sorry.”

He smiles, and sets the sake down. In English he responds, “Okay. Next time, we drink sake.”

Through Mayumi, my friend, translator, and go-to help for all my pragmatic needs while in Japan, I have arranged to meet her uncle in order to start a Japanese-English exchange. The plan is an hour of English and then and hour of Japanese. I’m hoping that the plan will help me take a step forward in the language which, as of now, is still stupefying me. When I meet Kawase-san for the first time, I know it will be a good exchange.

“Joshua-san,” he begins. “Tell me. What does the word ‘yippy-kay-yay’ mean?”

I can’t help but smile. I guess we’re starting with English first.

“Well…that’s a good question. I suppose it means, something like, ‘Yeah! Let’s go!’”

As soon as I finish my definition I realize that I missed the mark. How do you define ‘yippy-kay-yay’? Regardless, Kawase-san scribbles a note into his notebook. Mayumi looks on, also intrigued by the new word.

“Joshua-san.” Kawase-san begins to ask me again. “What about ‘Yee-haw’?”

I laugh. I’m starting to notice a trend.

“Well. I guess it’s pretty similar to ‘yippy-kay-yay’. Except I think you use ‘yee-haw’ when you’re riding a horse.” I pause for a second. “These are interesting words. I think that you like Westerns.”

“Ah, so, so, so,” he affirms. Knowing that I am far removed from cowboy culture, I still say proudly, “I’m from the West.”

Suddenly Kawase-san’s eyes brighten. “Ah, yes?”

“Oh yeah. I’m from Colorado. We have a saying—The West is the best.”

He chuckles and looks eager to ask another question. I can tell he is trying to recall the right words to use.

“So, you ride horses?”

Uh-oh. He’s calling my bluff. “Well, no, not exactly. I have ridden a horse. But I don’t do it all the time.”

The gleam in his eye fades slightly, but he continues smiling. He replies, “Oh, I understand. I understand. But, maybe, you have a gun?”

Again, I look away slightly, breathe in quickly and try to think of a politician’s response. “Well, no. I’ve actually never even fired a gun.”

Now the hopeful gleam in Kawase-san’s eyes fades visibly, but the smile remains. I feel bad. I’m not the cowboy he was hoping for.

Suddenly, I raise my voice, startling Kawase-san. “I have a word for you! ‘Giddy-up’!”

He looks intrigued. The gleam in his eyes surfaces again. He silently mouths the syllables: gi-di-up. “I have heard this. What does it mean?”

“That’s how you tell your horse to move faster. You yell, ‘Giddy-up!’ and the horse shoots off.”

He scribbles the word into his notebook and writes more notes. I struggle for something else to say that will prove that this exchange is worth his time.

“Here’s another one, Kawase-san. It’s used with cowboys all the time. ‘Ya’ll’.”

Now he’s smiling even bigger, as if I was the secret link to his transition into full cowboyhood. I might not be a cowboy myself, but I can teach him the ways of the cowboy.

“’Ya’ll’,” I repeat. “As in, ‘Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?’”

Kawase-san is now scribbling at high speed. He wants to get every word down, every accentual fluctuation, every accompanied hand gesture. I explain the meaning of ‘ya’ll’ and ‘Ya’ll come back now ya hear?”’ and suddenly the conversation takes off. Somehow my knowledge-well of cowboy culture is refilled and we talk about rodeos, famous bandits and robbers, line-dancing, and gold rushes. I tell him how my great grandpa met Buffalo Bill, and how you can still see cowboys today in Colorado. Kawase-san’s eyes remain fascinated now, and he continues to jot down notes and new words. His wife comes out and brings us dinner. His grandson and his grandson’s friend join us. Mayumi takes my small plate and fills it with sushi, then noodles, then egg-tofu. I continue to describe the culture of the American West, and realize that I do it with pride. Though I know I’m not a cowboy, something still rises in me to think that I’m not too far removed from it. Kawase-san seems to understand and accepts my experience as good enough for him.

By the end of the night the English lesson far outweighs the Japanese one. The majority of the time was spent with me teaching esoteric idioms from the ole west. At this point in my time in Japan I sorely need to learn more Japanese. I was hoping that by the end of the night I would have some new phrases and expressions to try out. But it appears that my Japanese will have to wait. I’m fine with waiting. A moment that makes me smile, laugh and feel welcome in this new country is well worth it.

Sweaty Gaijin

During a formal Japanese business introduction it is important to be dressed in your finest business attire. A suit with a white shirt and black tie is ideal. Your clothes should be ironed and clean and not stray from the standard professional dress expected in Japan.

When entering a building where it is required to take off your shoes, step out of your shoes into the guest slippers placed at the foyer. Keep your outdoor shoes in a pair and place them with the other outdoor shoes, toes facing toward the exit of the building. In some cases, you can take your slippers from a locker and put your outdoor shoes in their place.

When meeting new people during these formal introductions, bow properly, with your hands to your side, keeping your back rigid and bending at your hips. Say, “Hajimemashitte” (Nice to meet you) and then introduce yourself with, “Watashi wa ___________ desu” (I am ___________). Conclude by saying Yoroshiku onegai shimas (another way of saying nice to meet you) and bow again.

It is important to receive a business card with both hands, admiring the card for some interesting detail, and then of course, bowing upon receipt of the card. Never put the business card into your pocket, nor bend, dog-ear or otherwise mar the card. When receiving multiple cards, place the cards on the table in front of you, face up, and order them from left to right according to importance.

At the introduction you will be asked to sit. Do not sit. You will be asked multiple times, but refrain from sitting until the most important person sits first. You will also be offered tea or coffee by the head of the meeting. Do not drink the tea or coffee. Wait until the most important person has taken a drink first. Make light talk about your plans. If you are a new gaijin English teacher in the area, light talk means discussing how excited you are to be working in Japan, asking about the students, and going over your tentative schedule. Do not talk about how successful you will be teaching the students English, nor about your past accomplishments. Be humble. Be quiet. Let the heads of the meeting guide the conversation.

When the introduction is over, you will be asked to stand. That’s right, don’t stand. Until? Now you’re catching on. Once the head of the meeting stands, you may do the same. Again, bow and say Yoroshiku onegai shimas. Gather the business cards given to you, stacking them from top to bottom in order of importance, and keep them in your hand. Bow multiple times upon leaving to show how thankful you are.

If you can follow these simple rules to a formal Japanese introduction, you will surely be successful.

* * *

I couldn’t stop sweating. There are few things more uncomfortable than a sweat soaked, starched, Target brand collared shirt with a tie cinching it down against your neck. I wasn’t nervous though. Despite all that I had been told to do at my introduction to the Board of Education, or BOE as they call it, I wasn’t nervous.

A heat wave had been breaking record highs in Japan for the first week of my arrival. While I sat in the BOE office, in full business attire, my face showed clear signs that I couldn’t handle the heat. Luckily, in Japan the custom is to have a handkerchief with you in order to wipe the sweat from your brow. I had brought mine, but a handkerchief only does so much when it has already soaked through. I also chose to use the handkerchief sparingly because I had had it since I was five years old and I was not sure if the tattered ends and holes in it would appear as the most hygienic of sweat wiping devices to the Japanese. I also doubted that the snarling tiger image on it would convince them of my professionalism. My only other option against constantly wiping the sweat from my face with a 22 year old handkerchief was to let the sweat pour and then act like I had no problem with it. Maybe the Japanese would think that in my country extreme perspiration is a normal thing.

But again, I wasn’t nervous. I felt like I knew what I was supposed to do. I had practiced the bowing, the business card holding and admiring, and the introductions in Japanese. I even made a point to take my shoes off every time I entered my own apartment, in order to start forming the habit. Mayumi, my translator and cultural liaison, before entering the office, had asked me if I was nervous. With a smile I said, “Of course not. I’m excited!” Now, with rivulets flowing down my face while talking with the head of the BOE, she must have thought that I had been lying through my teeth.

If my sweating was offensive, the others didn’t let on. They maintained a very amiable yet professional demeanor. I did my best to do the same. I collected business cards and laid them on the table accordingly. I talked about being happy to be teaching in Japan, and Mayumi translated for me. Meanwhile sweat came down in streams. It was just too hot. It was 90, with humidity at 80 percent. The fact that the others weren’t in my same condition shocked me. There was no way that anyone could adapt to such heat.

Okay, maybe the sweat came because I was a little nervous. As I recall, there was one point during my time at the BOE where my nerves may have initiated the deluge. Again, I had rehearsed the greetings for days before the meeting. One statement, Yoroshiku onegai shimas (Nice to meet you), I made sure was well etched into my head, as it was the most complicated. Having practiced, when I arrived at the BOE office, I was confident that I could execute the phrase with perfection. As I entered, the whole office stood up, I was introduced, and everyone, in unison, said to me, “Yoroshiku onegai shimas.”

I recognized the phrase instantly and I knew that my job was to repeat, bow and then sit back and feel good about properly introducing myself. With the best pronunciation I could muster I did just that.

“Yoroshiku onegai shimas” I said, with what I believed was excellent pronunciation.

I bowed, and right as I was going to settle into the feeling good about myself part, I realized that they were doing it again. They were bowing a second time and saying Yoroshiku onegai shimas. I wasn’t prepared for a second time, and I didn’t know the proper response. Nothing at orientation covered a second Yoroshiku onegai shimas, nor did any of the pre-departure readings that they gave me in tomes. Perplexed at the situation, I thought it best to follow their lead. For a second time I bowed and said Yoroshiku onegai shimas, except this time with a questioning inflection at the end. When I stopped, I saw that they were going down for a third bow, with a third Yoroshiku onegai shimas! We were like pinball machine paddles going back and forth at each other, but instead of hearing the bells and whistles of the pinball machine, what filled the room was a perpetual echo of Yoroshiku onegai shimas. No one gave any sign that this was unusual so I repeated my bow and said Yoroshiku onegai shimas for a third time.

Somehow, eventually, I was ushered to a meeting table and I wasn’t sure if I had totally messed up, or if that was exactly how it was supposed to go. That is when I noticed the sweat begin. That’s also when I noticed how uncomfortable my clothes were.

I made it through however, and performed all the ceremonial traditions as well as any new gaijin to Japan can. When the meeting at the BOE was ending, I remember thinking, “Thank God that these introductions only have to happen once.” Mayumi and I left the office, bowing and saying Yoroshiku onegai shimas even more, and then we made way into the hall. I started to walk down the corridor, but Mayumi hesitated.

“You’re not coming?” I asked.

“Uh, yes” she responded. “But we have to wait for Suzuki-san.”

“He’s going back home with us?” I joked.

“Uh, no. He is going to introduce us to the three other schools you will be working at. We have three more introduction meetings today.”

She saw that I was surprised and asked, “Are you nervous?”

I Moved to Japan

For those who may not know, I now live in Japan. During my year back in the States I realized that my desire for travel and the specific kind of learning that it brings is still not satisfied. So I arranged plans to teach English in Asia. I was fortunate to get a position in the Fukushima area of Japan (yes, THAT Fukushima) and moved here about a month ago.

The blog has been inactive for most of the last year, though I do have a few stories from the US that I would eventually like to post once I get an Internet connection that isn't just on my phone. I've included one new entry below to give an impression of where I am. Yes, I did write it all from my phone. No, I won't be doing that again.

I hope you are all doing well and find the entry worth your time.

-Josh

Rice Paddies & Grumbling Giants

The rice paddies here grow a brilliant green in the sun. It's a color that I've never seen before which tells me that this experience is good. The road I take to work meanders next to that rich color of life and the movement of the car gives energy to the paddies. They become a wide, lazy green river moving against me. Verdant hills rise from the river and border the serpentine valley. In the forests that cover the hills, Japanese cicadas sing in continuous waves that build, crash and crescendo into one another. My neighbors tell me that they will sing until autumn. The sound is a melody that astounds me. I'm relieved to be astounded again. My senses have been craving something new.

The earth is uncomfortable. He's trying to rest but can't find the right position. You can hear his cantankerous grumble before he moves. The sound, cavernous and dark, builds from the east and undulates toward my door. As soon as I make it out for what it is, the furniture begins to tremble. I hope that the sudden vibrating living room is only a tremor, but the giant whose back on which my apartment rests is capricious.

One night his insomnia was contagious. I laid awake in a loft above my kitchen and the earth decided to move his resting position. He grumbled and rolled and my lofted bedroom became the top of a bobble head doll. At the height of the shaking, I clutched at my toppling desk with one hand and at a pair of pants with the other. I was getting ready to make a run for it. The ceiling beams sounded cracks while the wall beat against my shoulder. I tried to plan my escape but realized that strategy is hard to summon while your home is trembling violently. By the time I convinced myself of how to flee (shrieking and half naked was the best I could come up with) the trembling quieted and then, disappeared. The beams were still in one piece. The walls only shivered slightly and then stopped. And my heart raced. Everything was in one piece, making me believe that the earth had found a position to rest in for the time being.

My wanderlust has brought me here, to green rice paddies and a shaking apartment. I am happy to be here, on the move once again.

The Brazen American

The afro-haired man walks and plays his guitar on the street mall. He has two friends by his side. They’re friends your mamma would warn you to stay away from. Both are about my age— young still. One of the afro-haired man’s friends is a ragged neo-hippie. He looks swarthy. His eyes are clouded by drugs. The other friend is a gypsy girl. Gypsy girls are always beautiful. This one was beautiful like a jump into an abyss. The three march down the street mall side by side while the afro-haired man sings too loud. Usually the street performers stay put and let you come to them. They entertain you and you can drop them a dollar if you’d like, if you think they need it, if you think you can spare one dollar. But the afro-haired man with light brown skin, wearing long baggy pants and an extra large hooded sweatshirt, doesn’t stay put. He doesn’t entertain. He intimidates. He walks while he plays his guitar, searching the street mall for inspiration.

Hey you there!
Why ain’t you lookin’ at me?
Why ain’t you lookin’ at me,
pretty lady?

The girl he passes, an awkward seventeen year old with blond hair, chuckles uncomfortably and quickly darts into a shop.

Goodbye blonde girl!
Why you afraid of my song?
My songs are for you,
for you,
for you…

The hippie laughs with half closed eyes and a fully closed smile. He shakes his head, silently acknowledging that he thinks his friends are the greatest. The gypsy girl looks at the afro-haired man with admiration. He’s witty. He’s more confident than everyone else. She wants to grab him and steal some of his attention. The afro-haired man keeps his periphery on her as he scans the crowd.

Hey mister skinny jeans!
You can’t walk that fast!
Not with those jeans,
A-squeezin’, a-squeezin your ass!

Hey lady in the blue dress, don’t run away,
You know that I’ve got something to say.
You lookin’ nice, with that blue dress on,
I said you lookin’ nice with that blue dress on.

The street mall bounces past like a slow cartoon background. The trio is center stage, center of attention, center of the world. The pedestrians are uncomfortable. They wonder who’s next. Who will the afro-haired man sing about? Will he make fun of me? Or that guy there, the fat one? He’s much easier to make fun of than me. Make fun of him for God’s sake, not me.

Oh hey there big boy,
off to the doughnut shop?
I hear they got bear claws
For a dollar off.

The hippie and the gypsy girl roll into laughter. The fat man grimaces but doesn’t say a word. He has no time to argue with an afro-haired man, a hippie and a gypsy girl. The fat man moves out of sight.

The crowd avoids the trio and the afro-haired man’s songs. It’s as if the trio sits atop a hillock while the crowd acts water-like, streaming around them at a safe distance. But all is two-dimensional and the trio walks at the same level as the rest of the masses. There is merely the separation of the singer and the crowd, a crowd now eager to be audience to a different show.

The trio smiles at each other and laughs with the joy of power. The afro-haired man sings louder still. He sees me watching. He strikes a chord.

This guy thinks he’s better me,
But I got talent and friends you see
He walks alone on a busy street
But I got talent and friends with me.

I walk past, annoyed that he brought attention to me, annoyed at his arrogance, annoyed at the lyrics themselves. He’s making everybody uncomfortable. He’s making me uncomfortable.

The afro-haired man struts away, confident, praised by his friends, feared by the mindless masses, the masses who have never gotten in touch with their inner street mall singer. Why not sing aloud? Show the world you have no fear. Show the world what real confidence looks like, because the world needs to know.

I hear the afro-haired man's guitar chords fade into the banter of the crowd.


The next morning I’m on the street mall again, in the cold of autumn dawn. A down jacket barely holds my warmth. The street mall is almost empty.

I pass a coffee shop that smells like cinnamon rolls. Outside, in the frosty shadows, four homeless men wait for patrons to come out and give them a quarter or two, or a cup of coffee, or a different life. The patrons of the coffee shop leave avoiding eye contact with the needy men who beg with their eyes. With warm coffee between their palms, the patrons pass the open hands of the homeless men, one after another. The leaves in the trees shiver from a cold breeze. The men wait patiently. More patrons sit inside. They’re wearing sweaters and typing on laptop computers.

I walk by the four men just as a fifth comes to join them. A fifth to beg for quarters in the cold. A fifth hand to be ignored by exiting patrons. It’s the afro-haired man. Just before settling in to stare at the coffee shop, he looks up at me. He holds my gaze and stays quiet. I look away and walk to work.