Sammy-Boy

I had to write a modern day interpretation of a old testament story for my Hebrew history and lit class. I'm also thinking about submitting this one for Ruminate Magazine competition. So here it is. I think it's pretty freaking good. But that's just me. You should tell me what you think.

There is an eerie dark that seems to swallow the streets at this time of night. It’s that hour where all the party goers and night owls have finally turned in, but the people who wake up early to beat traffic are still in bed. It’s the hour where nothing good can happen.
And I am up to no good.
It’s a long walk of shame from his apartment to mine. The tall buildings loom above me, and the smog creates a menacing glow around the moon. Most girls wouldn’t walk alone this late at night. Hell, most girls wouldn’t walk at all this time of night. They would have stayed over, safely snug in their man’s bed, with blankets and arms keeping them safe and warm. But I’m not most girls. Even so, I still pick up my pace past the dark alley ways that I pass. I can hear bums shifting in their alcohol induced sleep, a few stray cats rustling through garbage and the clack of my heels against the pavement.
I turn down the familiar street where my complex is. It’s not as nice as his place. But if I do my job, be a good little whore; I’ll end up in a better place than he is.
My room is on the fifth floor and the elevator is broken, as it has been for the past two years I’ve lived here. That’s five too many flights of stairs for this time of night, but somehow I make it. I fumble with my keys and finally get the door open.
There’s a thin fog of smoke in my kitchen/living area. I tense up immediately.
“Hello Delilah” the man says from a crappy Wal-mart futon. He’s fat, bald, dressed in a fine suit. He looks like some film noir 1920’s gangster. “Did you have a good time?” He takes another puff of his cigar before putting it out. I can feel his grey eyes piercing into me. “Sammy boy treating you good?” he asks. His eyes haven’t moved since I came in the apartment. “Why don’t you come an’ sit down ‘Lilah? Let’s talk about you and ol’ Sammy boy” he motions with his big pale hand to a spot next to him. He continues to gesture as I slowly sit down. “Now…Do you remember why we are paying you?” I nod.
“Yes’sir” The words trip out of my mouth faster than I want them to.
“Why are we paying you?”
“To be your mole in Sammy’s organization” I sound so stupid; stupid and scared.
“Good girl” he pats me on my knee as he stands up “And what is the information we need you to get” He moves in front of me.
“You want me to find all his men that can be bought over to you”
“And…”
“The info for the overseas accounts…”
“And…”
“You want me to keep him distracted as you take down his organization.” His strong hands grip into my shoulders and he pulls me to stand up.
“Now…is that so difficult of a thing to do. Or are you just trying to play us out for more cash.” All I feel is air moving past me and suddenly I’m floor. “Or are you playing both sides…”
“I’m sorry, Phil.” I hear myself screaming and it’s so pathetic.
“What are you sorry for Delilah?” he shouts “Sorry that your screwing us all over or what?”
“No! He’s not like the others. He tries to keep me out of his business. Says it’s for my own good. It’s taking longer than I expected to get in. I’ll get you your info I swear.” I can feel hot tears streaming down my cheeks, black mascara running with them. He pulls out a gun and then there’s cold steel against my temple.
“You have one month.” He says. His voice is hard, deep, menacing. “In one month I better be given the keys to Samson’s kingdom. And I want them hand delivered by you. And If I don’t get them, there ain’t anywhere you can run; there ain’t anywhere you can hide. Not even Sammy-boy himself will be able to protect you.”
I hear him leave. “One month ‘Lilah.” he calls from down the hall.
I wake up on the futon to my cell phone vibrating in my pocket.
“Hello” I answer groggily.
“Hey beautiful” I smile. “You were gone this morning. I was worried you didn’t get home all-right.” I slowly sit up. My head is pounding.
“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up. You were out like a light. Did you have rough day yesterday?” I light up a cigarette to keep the headache at bay.
“Business is business.”
“I could help you. Y’know.”
“Babe, we’ve been over this.”
“I can handle it.”
“I don’t want you involved.”
“I want to be.”
“We’ve discussed this.”
“I know.” There is a silence over the phone. I can hear the wheels in his head turning as he tries to change the topic of conversation.
“Hey guess what?” he says mood shifting instantly.
“Umm… I don’t know. You’re… finally getting a hair cut” He laughs.
“Absolutely not.” He says. I can hear the smile on his face. “I know you don’t have work today so I cancelled all my appointments and we both have the whole day off. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yep. So why don’t you get ready, and I’ll come and pick you up in about an hour. Okay?”
“Okay”
“See you then, I love you” The phrase catches me off guard and makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“Love you too” I want to put the bullet in my head now.
“Kay, see you in an hour.” I stare off into space for a few moments before moving to the bathroom to get ready.
What if we just left? What if we just got in his car and drove away? We could go to Spain. Get Married. I could pop out a few kids, and he could set up shop and we could not have to worry about anything.
Or I could run. I could run away. Change my name and hide out in some hickville in the middle of nowhere and work as a waitress at some hole in the wall restaurant. And just wait from them to find me. They would find me. But I wouldn’t have to betray Sam.
Or I could just tell Sam what’s going on. He’d protect me. He’s Samson. He runs one of the most powerful syndicates along the east coast. Nothing would happen to me.
Or he’d throw me out in the street and Phil and his guys would come and have their way with me before killing me and everyone I ever knew.
Or he’d just put a bullet in my head for selling him out. Jesus, I might as well be a whore. It’d be less complicated.
I set down my curling iron and spray my hair locking the tresses into place. My cell phone buzzes and I swear before grabbing my purse and running down the five flights to his car.
He’s leaning against the car door looking epically cliché. He smiles as I approach.
“Hey Babe” he takes my hand and opens the door for me. “Your carriage, m’lady” I smile and comment on how cheesy he is. He smiles and says that I fell for it. He asks what I want to do. I smile and say that I hadn’t put much thought into it. He jokes about how that how all women are. I punch him playfully in the shoulder and he playfully pouts and complains that it hurts till I kiss it and make it all better.
We end up going to lunch at some up-town restaurant. I feel so low-class, but he winks and I don’t feel so much like a college drop-out anymore. We talk a little about what else is happening around the city today. There’s a pause and he looks up at me completely seriously.
“I don’t like that you walked back to your apartment. It’s dangerous out there for pretty girls such as yourself”
“I didn’t want to wake you up to ask you to drive me back” He looks down at his plate. “I’m a big tough girl. I can take care of myself.” I laugh. He isn’t. “Plus, you looked so tired and you were completely out.” He looks back up.
“Move in with me.” I freeze like a dear caught in the headlights.
“What!”
“Move in with me. Think about it, it’s a safer neighborhood. You could go back to school instead of having to work in that diner. I could take better care of you.”
“Samson…” I start and stop. And my thoughts turn to the ones I had earlier. What if we could just leave? “Samson… I was thinking we could move out of the states. Go somewhere else. Somewhere new. Get away from all this junk y’know. Have a new start somewhere else.”
“What junk?” he asks.
“I don’t know…just all this…” He leans back in his chair and doesn’t say anything. He looks like he’s actually thinking it all through. I let myself hope. Hope that I can worm myself out of this mess.
“Delilah.” He says my name softly. “Theres’s something I need to show you.” He leaves a few bills on the table and he escorts me out to his car. We drive silently back down familiar streets to his neighborhood.
But for once we don’t park in his flat’s garage. We park on the street in front of an office building. He takes my hand and guides me to an elevator in the building. We go to the top floor. People greet him. They don’t call him Sammy, or Samson. They call him sir or Mr. The look at him with a level of respect. The men smile at me and some of the girls shoot me nasty looks. He opens up a door for me and I walk in.
His office. There is power in this room. There is power in the large desk and high-tech computer screen. There is power in the line of filing cabinets; power in the expensive leather chairs that furnish it. He takes my hand again and leads me to a balcony. We go to the edge and he leans over the balcony and looks down.
“Delilah…” he says my name like he did in the restaurant. “What do you see down there?”
“People” I shrug. “Cars, small stores.”
“I see a community that four generations ago was so impoverished that was labeled tent city by the press. Then my family came in and we built up the economy of this place. The economy here lies soley within this business. We buy the small stores so they don’t get bought by huge companies and the huge companies can’t afford to buy us. So families keep their stores. We moderate gang activity so other groups don’t come in and mess with us. I keep this place safe for my people. So as much fun as leaving with you would be, I can’t leave them. It won’t happen.” He turns to me and smiles and walks back into his office.
I look back down to the street for a moment and I can feel my stomach getting nauseous. The gravity of my actions weighs down.
“If I move in with you; will you let me help you?” He turns around from just inside the doorway. “I want to help you. I want to help you make things better.” This is wrong. This is so wrong. “I’m not that smart. But I can learn to be a savvy business woman” I smile brightly. This. Is. Wrong. He walks slowly up to me and suddenly he’s right in front of me. Powerful arms wrap around my shoulder in a hug. His forehead presses against mine.
“Okay.” He says after a long moment of silence.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Okay” he repeats.
“Now what would I have to do to convince you to let me give you a hair cut?” He laughs and pulls me back into the hug.
The next few weeks are terrible. He has me organize a bunch of files on his computer while he’s in a meeting. I copy the hard disk and give it to Phil. I end up buying off some of his guys. I feel disgusting. He’s getting more and more stressed. I know it’s because everything is going as planned. But I do my job. I be the girlfriend. The lover. The whore. The distraction. And every night he falls asleep with his worries gone.
It’s horrible because I’m not lying to him when I say I love him. I do.
But it’s all too much. And I’m just waiting for it all to crash down around me.
My month is almost over and everyday I feel like I’m going to die. When I’m not with Sammy, I look over my shoulder. When I’m with Sammy, he talks about our future. The possibility of me going back to school, us getting married and having a few kids,. How awesome life is going to be. And I know it will never happen.
But I still dream that it could come true.
“Does the fact that I haven’t cut my hair since my sophomore year of college bug you that much?” The question catches me off guard. We’re in bed watching some movie.
“Not really” I admit. “However, I am curious as to how you would look without it.” I snuggle lazily into his side.
“Want to cut it?” he asks.
“Tomorrow is Sunday. No hair place is going to be open.”
“I mean right now. Do you want to cut my hair?”
“You would let me cut your hair.” He starts laughing.
“Course’ I trust you” His words send a lump to my throat.
“Okay.” He rolls out of bed and we go to the bathroom.
Lock after lock fall to the floor. I try to keep my hands from shaking and as I the brown strands slide through my fingers. And suddenly he looks like a new man.
He runs his hands through his short hair and smirks.
“Looks good.” He turns around on the stool. “What do you think?” I run my hands through the short hair and nod and smile. He yawns tiredly and we return to bed.
And then they come for him. I hear them thunder up the stairs to his flat. He grabs a gun from out of the dresser and tells me to hide in the bathroom. I don’t. I start to cry and all the filth of everything I am weighs down.
They burst down the bedroom door and they grab him. I see them beat him. I see them bruise and bloody him up and all I can do is sit on the floor by the bed and cry. They don’t touch me. He’s down but conscious when Phil comes in. He drops a stack of cash in my lap.
“Good girl”
“Delilah” Samson sputters my names as his blood drips down onto the white carpet. I begin to sob.
“I’m sorry” I cry. “I’m so sorry.”
“Delilah” he screams as they drag him away. “DELILAH!”
They are long gone. But I can still hear him screaming at me. I run. I take the money and I run. I get in his car and drive as far as I can. I drive and drive and drive. I find a house down south and I finally stop. It’s a nice place. I’m finishing school and I have a job.
I read about how they killed him in the newspaper. Phil turned him into the police with evidence I gathered. At the trial. He shot Phil and a bunch of the other members of his gang. But he got shot up. He’s dead. But still all I can hear in my dreams is him screaming my name that night and he won’t ever stop. I don't want him to.

Dear God. I'm Just A Kid.

So... Danny and Hosanna both did some Spoken Word/Slam Poetry testimony tonight. That kind of poetry isn't something I've done in a while and I felt inspired.

Nicaragua, nineteen forty four.
Latin American Aristocracy
14 years old, pregnant for the first time.
World War two at its height
Bombs could drop
Any Day.
Any Time.
Any Place.
Dear God, I’m just a kid.
Nineteen sixty two.
Revolution in the Air.
Sandinistinas wave guns in the air.
Contras wave guns without a care.
Twelve years old.
One Older sister
One Younger.
Momma. Papa.
All three Tias.
The shot could come.
Any Day.
Any Time.
Any Place.
Dear God, I’m just a kid.
Momma’s drunk on the couch again.
Ten years old.
She shouts.
She yells.
Fists in inebriated rage.
It can fall
Any Day.
Any Time.
Any Place.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
That’s my lineage.
It’s built into my genetic code.
A
U
C
G
My RNA.
My DNA.
Seven years old.
Grandpa drunk in his room.
Screams. Yells.
Tells me I’m too fat.
Tells me I’m too dumb.
Tells me things…
No kid should hear.
Dear God, I’m just a kid.
Eleven Years old.
New House.
New Sister.
New Life.
Sitting at the table when I hear my mom’s cry.
Daddy ain’t happy with his wife no more.
Daddy ain’t happy with this life no more.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Thirteen Years Old.
Daddy in Greens, Blacks and Tans.
Makin’ Uncle Sam proud.
I want you.
Long Finger points down at me.
“You Just Grew Up”
Three younger sisters.
Single mother of four.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Still Thirteen.
Freshman year.
Unwanted. Unhappy.
Alone.
I’m not good enough.
They say.
I can’t succeed.
They say.
Watch me fail with flying colors.
I say.
Three F’s.
Too smart to be dumb.
Too Dumb to be smart.
Seven leafed plant.
Grass ain’t always green.
Thin smoke.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Fourteen Years Old.
She had Red hair. Red Lips.
Black Shirt Black Pants
Tall Boots Silver Chains.
And a Rainbow Flag in the air.
Jesus Freaks say God hates me
Lesbian, Dyke, Bi-sexual whore.
I say he who is without sin,
Be the first to cast the stone.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Fifteen Years Old.
Daddy’s back from the war.
Momma’s a single mother of four.
My hearts ripped out an all torn up.
No Friends.
Razor marks on my thigh.
All I want is to be high.
Misery.
Doldrums.
Alone.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Sixteen years old.
Production Stage Manager.
Burning Bright Theatre Company.
Took me six months to climb to the top.
And at the top I stayed.
I have a responsibility to my director.
I have a responsibility to my actors.
I have a responsibility to my school.
The success of all on my shoulders.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Seventeen Years Old.
Daddy dressed again in for the Red White and Blue.
No more hate to hate him with.
It’s gone.
And so is he.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Eighteen Years Old.
One Year done.
Three or Four to go.
Come home to an empty house.
Momma lost her job.
The legalistic perversion of Christianity prevails.
Repo man is almost at our door.
Creator of the Universe we need a miracle.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Eighteen Years old.
Get a phone call from home.
“Shay, they found a spot on my lung.”
The C word blares out at me like a cop car pulling me over.
“They think its cancer”
I drive.
Panic attack off highway 99.
I scream. I cry.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Three Hours later.
I arrive.
“Shay… she’s in a lot of pain”
Oh how I could wish I could strike that image from my mind.
Erase it somehow. Someway.
The sight of my mother,
Pale faced.
Eyes Squeezed shut.
In agony.
In pain.
In turmoil.
My mommy.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
A few days later.
Putting number four to bed.
Six years old and smart as whip.
My Baby girl.
My Baby sister.
I tell her a story.
And she asks if mom is gonna be okay.
Dear God. She’s just a kid.

A Conversation

"I can't do this" She says quietly, staring down at the coffee mug in her hand. Across the table, his newspaper slightly drops revealing eyes that stare into her soul.
"Yes, you can..." The gray sheets crinkle as they are folded up and disregarded on the table.
"No, I can't." She pulls her eyes away and stares off into space. "It's too much." her voice is hardly above a whisper.
The coffee pot drips in the back ground.
"I would never ask you to do something I didn't think you could handle."
"I'm not old enough. I'm still a kid!"
"So grow up." his tone is harsher than he means it to be. She winces. He doesn't apologize. It needs to be said. A tear streams down her face. He takes a deep breath as silence permeates.
"I fucking hate you" she cries loudly. He winces, but regains his composure.
"You've said that before." He looks back at her. "And your still here."
"I mean it this time." she says, jawline hard.
"You've said that before too." Her jaw doesn't soften. His eyes do. His hand rests on her arm now.
"It's not fair..."
"It never is." he sighs sadly recalling memories from a long time ago. "Hmmm" he says a few minutes later, after becoming vaguely aware of her voice addressing him.
"I asked: why is that?" He stared hard for a minute before turning away.
"Because the world isn't right." He says it like its the most simple thing in the world.
It is.
"Why me?" her mouth is dry, so her voice is hoarse.
"Because you can handle it." The hand on her arm moves to her shoulder.
"But I can't." she protests, pushing him away. She isn't strong enough and he snatches her wrist as it flies toward him.
"Yes. You. Can." Eyes lock and he doesn't let go of her wrist. "You don't have a choice but to." A long silence.
"Let go." She commands. There are rapidly fading red marks as he slowly opens his hand. It won't bruise. She slides back into her seat as he sits down, only closer to her.
She isn't saying anything, her hands shake as she doodles on a napkin.
His elbows press into his knees and his hands press into his eyes. His breathing is heavy.
"I just don't want to be alone." He didn't expect her to speak. "I just can't do it alone." She starts crying. "I can't do this alone." she buries her face in her hands. He lowers his eyes, before looking back up at her.
"What on earth makes you think you're going to be alone?"

Still shaking.

It's night.
I'm shaking.
It's a result of 6 hours of sleep in 48 hours, a hot pocket in 24, and a venti blended mocha in 3.
I can't help but think it's because of something else.
The nurse comes in changes out the IV, adds more medication, does an ultra-sound, records the amount of fluid that the tube vacuums from her lung.
They tell her things; me things.
Diluted hyrdro-cordrin.
Axenol
Prefix followed by morphine.
I can't process it.
She tells me to talk.
I can't think of anything of value to say.
So I talk about literature, history, my weak grasp of theology.
Word for Word class discussions.
It's the only things that are making sense right now to me.
They make no sense to her, in retrospect, but she listens anyway.
She falls asleep at about 3:30.
The room isn't quiet.
Her breathing is raspy; not the breathing I'm familiar with.
The machine applies air pressure to wraps on her legs.
It's to prevent blood clots.
It sounds like it's breathing for her.
There is a tube coming out of her side, vacuuming fluid from her lung.
Every minute it hisses.
Other things beep.
Each beep has a different pitch.
Lights on. Lights off.
Every hour. Every half-hour.
Nurse in, Nurse out.
I can't sleep.
I can't think.
I can't even cry.
It's the dead of night.
I text a friend under false pretense.
A failed attempt to try and stay the terrifying feeling of being alone.
It's the dead of night, the conversation doesn't last long.
Too much pride to call someone.
Desperation is unbecoming.
So I sit and I stare at the bed.
I'm still shaking.
I haven't showered since Monday afternoon.
I try not smell my clothes, myself.
The smell of a long car drive, sweat, greasy hair, and hospital.
She wakes up briefly. She's thirsty.
I get her a cup and she falls back asleep.
Functioning on Auto-pilot.
Pull out a book.
Read the same sentence until I finally realize it.
Put it away.
Stare.
Stare into the dark until light peeks through the blinds.
The floor looks like its on fire.
The sun has finally risen.
New Nurse.
I'm still shaking. I don't think it'll stop anytime soon.

No Sorry, That's Italian.

She was and probably still is named Señora Righello. And she was a truly terrifying woman. She believed herself to be cultured and with that came a vein of pretension that never left. She had traveled around the world; learned Spanish in Argentina, Portuguese in Brazil, French in Canada, and Italian in Italy. And she never failed to remind us.

I mentioned she was truly frightening and that deserves an explanation.

Señora Righello stood 5' 10 without her heels, which by the way were not heels. They were riding boots that buttoned (buttoned, not laced) to her mid calf. She had hair, that I would equate to lions mane of red hair. And by red, I mean a fiery burning reddish orangish tangle of curls. She was a pale woman. Not sickly green pale (as that would clash with her hair) but, more of a plaster pale. Like she had been working with sheet rock.

Her attire was always a skirt or a dress. I don't have any recollection of her wearing pants or denim for that matter. When she wore skirts, they were always long (thank God). Long, ruffled and distinctly foreign. And everyday, everyday without fail, she would have a ridiculous flamboyant scarf. Now contrary to popular belief, flamboyant does not instantly equate to gay. I use the term in the sense that the scarves were grand, dramatic, expensive, and colorful. No doubt they were procured on her many (and she regularly assured us...many) travels.

The best image I can give you of her is the ( I can't believe I'm using this example) the drama teacher from high school musical.

Everyday while we prattled away with our notebooks and worksheets, she would sit at her desk, one antique riding boot gently folded over the other and sip what I can only assume was coffee out of an interesting do – hickey. A beverage holder which she repeatedly explained was the traditional mug-type-thing for hot and warm beverages in Argentina.

And everyday, every single day, she would in some way, shape, or form, remind us (the lowly uncultured students) that she spoke four languages.

“Oh Pardoné moi” she would say. “I lapsed into french”

“I'm sorry” she would exclaim. “I gave you the conjugation in Portuguese.”

But most commonly, she would place a crooked finger to her pursed lips and “hmmm” loudly and stare down the bridge of her nose pensively as she desperately tried to figure out what was wrong with the sentence she had just written. Then, miraculously, it clicked. And as she underlined the offending word or phrase, she would state.

“No. Sorry. That's Italian.”

I was playing games with my cousins. They are six, four, and two. And then there is my aunt who is eight. (but that's a long story). We were all hanging out and when my cousins said something to me in Spanish and I attempted to say something back. What came out was a freaky friday cross between English and Spanish and what I can only assume was Elfin. A strange gibberish caused by momentary loss of synapses in my brain.

“What” my cousin looked up at me with a curious look on her face. I stood blankly trying to understand the word vomit that had just spewed from my lips to my cousins ears. Again... she asked, this time with a little head tilt to the side.

“No sorry” I explained. “That's Italian.”

of Leperchauns and 4am train rides

I once met an oversized leprechaun on a train from Bakersfield to Stockton.

Actually, that’s a lie.

I first encountered the leprechaun on a connecting bus from Fullerton CA, to Bakersfield.

Well, that is also a fallacy. I never actually met him, per say.

I rather, observed him from my seat in the back of the bus. Because that is where people like me sit: the back of the bus.

To be quite honest, I didn’t even want to be on that bus. In my own mind, I should have been in my ultimate destination of Roseville, California at least four hours before my encounter with the titanic representation of Gaelic Mythology.

I had begun my journey around 1:30pm in the afternoon, after my final class leading into Easter Break.
Mind you, my university is a Christian university. Hence, we are given both Spring and Easter break.
At any rate, I began my drive North in my noble, yet humble, cherry red Ford Escort SE; a car which I dubbed Lola Kay during my sophomore year of high school. Only for her to sputter, klank, stick, violently quake, click, freak out, and nearly kill me.

I had gotten to the foot of the grapevine. Two hours from my starting point in Fullerton. It was then I realized that I was not going to make it safely to my destination.

Of course, I did not react as calmly as my previous statement implies.

It was more a panic attack induced by vivid visions (would you check out that alliteration) of trusty Lola Kay exploding, flying off a cliff, crashing into gasoline tankers, crashing into anything, and of course, implosion. These hallucinations were, as always, followed by tear-jerking images of my friends and loved ones at my seemingly inevitable funeral.

But what was so tear-jerking about the images wasn’t the fact that I was six feet under. Although I must agree that the loss of such an eccentric personality in such a freak accident would be a loss to mother earth. No, it wasn’t the fact that I was dead. It was the fact that of all my eulogies, obituaries, funeral speeches, et cetera, there was not one that gave a clear picture of who I was, and moreover who I was aspiring to be.

Now, the understanding of exactly what had happened didn’t come until much later. The immediate action, after the drawn out recovery from the panic attack, was to call a car savvy friend. A friend who upon hearing the description of the noise blatantly ordered “Turn around”

Hence, I was sitting on a bus/train with an over-sized leprechaun.

It is my belief that everything happens for a reason. I also believe the theory that suggests that a butterfly flapping it’s wings in the Amazon causes a hurricane in the gulf of Mexico.

But my beliefs aren’t all that interesting. What is interesting is the leprechaun.

I boarded the train from Fullerton to Bakersfield at one in the morning. It was the last train out of Orange County that could possibly get me up to my lovely Sacramento suburb.

Yet even at that ungodly hour for anything besides mayhem, the leprechaun donned a beat up, stud-lined, slightly torn Top Hat. Oh but wait, it gets better. Not only did he have a top hat, which in and of itself is not that incredible. He also wore a pair of perfectly polished cowboy boots. The boots led up his leg into a pair of ultra tight “skinny jeans.” He also wore a black shirt of some sort or another. In my thirty second glance at him I didn’t get a good enough glimpse of his shirt to give you a description with merit. I was not able to secure such a look though, because over the shirt (whatever kind it may be) he wore a green jacket which appeared to be fashioned out of cheap suede.

Now, when I say green, I have to assume that you think I mean military green. Simply due to the fact that most green jackets are militaristic in style.

Such is not the case with the leprechaun’s jacket.

The jacket itself is not military in neither cut nor style. The lines of it, while still clean and straight, are not crisp and rigid like that of a military jacket. The best example I can come up with is that of an old tux jacket, like on a lounge musician would wear. It is the type of jacket that a pianist or saxophonist may wear while performing in an upscale restaurant. In a word: classy.

However, I would have to assume that the jacket would not be appropriate for lounge musician, no matter how classy the cut may be.

This is due to the fact that it is green; not a militaristic hunter green, nor a velveteen forest green.
No. The shade of green this jacket boasts is a subdued lime.

I only describe it as subdued to remove any presuppositions you may hold about lime green. The jacket is not a neon. The leprechaun is by no means radiating.

That stated, the only reason the leprechaun was not glowing is the material of the jacket. It was constructed out of a cheap suede. I only say cheap suede because who it would be very very silly to die a nice suede jacket lime green.

A thin red polka dotted tie was snuggly set around his throat. Note: it was snuggly placed on his neck. Not hanging halfway down his chest like the majority of punker morons that run around today. And when I said the tie was red. I do mean red. Standard, 8-piece-crayola-marker-set

red. No more, no less.

To complete the ensemble, about his neck he had a metal brace for a harmonica. The harmonica itself was locked into the brace and the whole contraption hung approximately thirty degrees from his face.
This was just the first impression I got of the punk-rock leprechaun. An observation that was taken fifteen feet behind him on the bus ride from Fullerton to Bakersfield.

I first realized he was an oversized Leprechaun while waiting on the train platform at Bakersfield. He is a very short fellow. Not quite a hobbit, but at any rate he would never-ever be picked in the top ten for basketball at school. He stood about 5’5 maybe 5’6. And I paid particular attention to him on the platform not because he was astonishingly witty, good-looking, or charming. I paid attention to him because he had removed his top-hat for a young woman named Sara; a fact that I had learned through eavesdropping, a skill that many would find “creepy”.

His hair hung down to the base of his neck and I use the term hung rather loosely. For hair to be hanging from ones head it must have some semblance of straight. He was gifted with no such thing. Fluffy hair, not necessarily curly, just fluffy, although I may point out there was a slight curl due to the encasement of his head in the top hat.

He had bleached and dyed his hair green in various tufts throughout his unruly mane. However it would seem by the length of the black roots that he had not re-bleached his hair in some time.

From my position on a bench no too far away, I was able to observe his belongings.

Slung over one shoulder were two separate satchels. A satchel, by definition, is a fabric sack with some sort of shoulder strap. In the leprechaun’s case, the strap was a rope. True, make-yourself-noose-and-hang-yourself-with-it rope. In one of the satchels he had an old scooter, that even in the dim 4am light I could tell that it had seen too many years. The other was sealed so I had no idea as to its contents.

At his feet sat a large rectangular guitar case. White lettering had marked the instrument. “THE TRUTH IS A VIRUS” painted in jagged, white, letters across the face of the case. Having seen the early nineties movie PUMP UP THE VOLUME, I immediately understood the reference and did not look so oddly at him as the older, more conservative travel companions did.

I took particular notice to the fact that he did not have a suitcase. He had the guitar case, the satchels, and a small laptop bag, from which he later furnished a laptop and several books. So I know that there was no clothing in that bag. I found it odd. For even I and my four day excursion back home had packed my small bag whose sole contents was clothing. But this young man had none.

Now he may not have clothing because he was traveling between houses. Both of which houses had his clothing safe within. Or he may have had a freak accident and his clothing was stolen or burned or lost. However, I don’t like any of these stories for the young man. I choose to believe that the reason he did not have a suitcase was simply because he believed that he didn’t need one.

What a statement.

I began my journey with a panic attack because I did not know that my loved ones knew who I was. But here was this young man that I happened to observe on a bus at 4 in the morning.

And I instantly knew who he was.

Without question, he was musician. Moreover, he aspired to be a musician. He had a fondness for early nineties teen movies, all of which had the same theme strung throughout them. The “man” is lying to us. He is a rebel with a cause. Whether or not that cause makes sense to us, it doesn’t matter to him. He probably wears a top hat to give honor to the guitarist Slash. He wears a polka dotted tie, he is playful and a child at heart. The style of the jacket is classy, he must also have a trace of class.

With only a few minutes observation, without even saying a word to him, without him even realizing I was looking.

And yet, with all the hours I spent, sitting in conversation, deep conversation nonetheless, I’m afraid my loved ones will not understand me as much as I understood the young man.

He boarded the train before I did. He walked up on to the upper level, rounded the corner and disappeared into an empty train.

I watched the sunrise over the serria nevadas and watched it set into newport beach

I saw the sun rise over the Sierra Nevada’s and I saw it set into Newport Beach. I spent 15 hours on a train ride from Sacramento, California back down to Fullerton CA.
I regained my faith in humanity.
What it is about travel that seems to bring out both the best and the worse in mankind? I don’t know but you will never know a person’s true nature until you travel with them.
But as I said I regained my faith in humanity.
Yes, I saw a bunch of sleeze-ball kids with headphones on, blaring whatever garbage they listen to. I saw a lady cuss out one of the conductor’s because she missed her stop. I saw forty year old women reading smutty romance novels. I saw a the state of our nation’s youth, and was appalled.
Yes. I saw a lot of terrible things, but I saw one thing that made up for all the rest.
I was in bus stop in the Bay Area, waiting for the bus that would drive me to the next train station four hours away in San Luis Obispo. The bus wasn’t due for a half hour. So I wandered about the train station searching for something to keep my attention.
I saw out of the corner of my eye a man about the age 25 sitting on a bench by the bathroom door. He looked like every Mexican Gang Banger I had ever seen in my life. Feeling slightly uncomfortable I opted to go sit at the actual bus stop, than sit on the bench next to him for the next twenty minutes. I realize the horridness of my previous statement. But I hope it will be reconciled.
I sat listening to my mp3 playing device, and staring off into nothingness, until the bus arrived.
I sat next to a pleasant young woman and we made some idle chatter before returning to our own little worlds as more people boarded the bus.
For some odd reason I looked up just as the gang-banger boarded the bus. However he was not alone. In front of him were two small girls. They were approximately five and seven years old. On the five year olds back was a purple Tinkerbelle backpack, and on the seven year olds was a red High School Musical back pack.
I continued to observe him through the four hour train. The four year old daughter began getting a little fidgety about a half hour into the ride. So the father pulls her to him, pulls out his laptop and proceeds to watch High School Musical two with his daughter. Even begin to dance a bit in the seat.
The girls took a small nap and afterward their hair was mussed. This is the true shocker. He pulled a brush out of his girls back pack and not only put their hair in pony tail, but their hair wasn’t bumpy and then he proceeded to put their hair in braids.
I was rapidly realizing that I was I had mischaracterized this man.
Most father’s know how to put their daughters hair into loose ponytails that fall out in a few seconds. This man was able to braid his daughters hair as well.
The man got off the bus and as he left I notices a tattoo brandished across his forearm. The word “Misunderstood” in flourished print was there for all to see.
I regained my faith in humanity, because a man who looked like a gang-banger could braid his daughters hair.
I think it’s valid.
Even in the worst of all situations, there is good, if you care to look.