photography by Amadeus Long | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter
Somewhere on Hollywood Boulevard
Today, on Hollywood Boulevard, near the Rob Lowe
star on the Walk of Fame, I passed a sitting bum
who wore cargo pants and a World’s Greatest Dad
t-shirt. His feet were bare, grimy; and he was eating
an orange like an apple—gnawing right through the rind.
A copy of Les Misérables lay next to him, its pages fat and
swollen, and when a breeze pushed through, the sheets
ruffled; a pleasant sound, like leaves in the wind. I said,
Hello, and the man said, Hey…what’s up, muchacho?
I reached for my wallet. I only had a five spot, but
since I’d already cracked the leather, I had to give him
something. Lincoln, he said. No shit. Good prez.
Better beard. Hell, sometimes I wish I’d gotten shot
in the theatre. Nice way to go out if you ask me—
just bam, right there, while watching Bye Bye Birdie.
True, I said, before walking off. Wanna sit down?
he asked. I got some orange left, he said, and this
book here, that’s depressing as shit. Fucking French
guys, right? Hard to get through even five pages
without tearing up a bit. What do you say?
Uh. Sure. Okay, I said. So I leaned up against a building,
lit a smoke, and listened to him as he cleared his
throat and started in. He had a pleasant reading voice,
especially applied performing dialogue,
so I closed my eyes as his words blended
with the shuffle of passersby, the rumble of engines,
and the day-to-day buzz of honks and hollers.