+3.0+ Today’s Youth are Stars in a Mud Puddle from which Yesterday’s Youth Drink

Now, something I failed to mention: earlier, when I put my hands in my jacket pockets to get them warm, I found something that I somehow had forgotten: Motavation, neatly rolled, bought earlier in the morning off one of the city’s rejected youth, a boy.

I bought the spliff early while waiting at the bus-stop near my townhouse. The boy off whom I bought it couldn’t have been older than, say, 13. I was struck by how he would not, or could not, peacefully stand still. He was in constant motion, shifting his weight back and forth between legs, readjusting his baseball cap, with non-stop pulling on his baggy pants and crotch grabbing. On his pale, pinkish arms and face were red scratch marks. Long red lines matching perfectly his small fingers.

At first, I tried ignoring him. Ignoring him, for instance, by examining the reflection of a lamp post in a pothole at my feet, filled with an overnight dumping of rainwater. It was a little before 6 am. Early spring, just a hint of light on the horizon. The puddle reflected its yellow-hued source of illumination as if it were a peanut butter jar-filled collection of tiny, fuzzy stars, out of focus.

I felt a slight unease when I failed to see my own reflection in the mud puddle. But I had more pressing concerns. I knew I wasn’t a vampire. There was no chance in hell, and so I figured nothing’s wrong. More than likely the cause was material, nothing strange or mystical. It was the angle at which I stood looking down at the puddle.

To distract myself, every few minutes I checked my cell phone for messages.

You have 1 new message. First message: HeyJacob, its Desiree. Can’t wait to see you. End of new messages. You have one saved message: Hey jake, Todd. The bed’s need attention, man…weeds are growing like crazy. Come by when you get a chance, would you? Later. End of saved messages. To delete this message–

I noticed how, every few seconds, the boy stared at me, gauging me with what I took to be criminal intent. I was sure he didn’t want my clothes, or my shoes. I wore typical middle-class American clothing: blue jeans, a long sleeve shirt, a red parka with hood, socks and black tennis shoes. He had no use for my cell phone either–his was a more recent model. Except for the money in my wallet, I had nothing of value to him. I did have $289 in my wallet and a buss pass, for which I decided I was prepared to fight. If it came down to that.