Three days ago I ran into a man with no left hand. I approached the man and politely said:
“Dude, you have no left hand.”
He replied with, “No shit”, then hit me in the face with his nub. Right square in the nostrils.
“You hit me in the nostrils.”
“You’re damn lucky I don’t make you eat them.”
“What?” I asked, though he had run away.
At this time I grab my nose. Gripping it between my thumb and index finger I squeeze forcefully. Pain shoots through my whole face. I do this, for in my twisted way of thinking the more pain I feel to begin with the less pain I’ll feel later.
After a feeling of normalcy returns to my face I walk once again. Walk and whistle. Whistling the theme to Sanford and Son.
I pass a bum perched against a building. He waves. I ignore him, as I do with all street folk. I hear him mumble something to himself. I then feel the wind knocked from my lungs and fall face forward onto the sidewalk. I cough a couple of times and raise my head. I look behind myself to see a can of biscuits rolling down the street which have begun to ooze its doughy goodness from its impact with the back of my skull.
“Biscuits?” I yell in the bum’s general direction.
“Biscuits are the fruit of my loins!” he replies.
Before an answer can be given the bum slides a manhole from its resting place and dives inside, quickly closing and sealing so that I cannot follow.
I push myself up, jiggle my butt a little to work out the kinks imposed by those infernal biscuits. I place one foot in front of the other and continue my mission from God. To find that deliciousness that everyone is raving about. For I have no thought process. I must follow trends. Become Brad Pitt, Jr. No carbs can enter this body. I may lose weight…will it be worth the strain I place upon my poor, poor heart?
Oh! What is this deliciousness? Stupid bum. Stupid amputee. For they made me forget. I must follow this trend. I will die if I do not fit in.
I walk and walk. Keeping my head clear so as not to forget that which had once seemed unforgettable. That it may once again re-enter my inconceivable noggin.
I feel the sudden urge to spit. I hock a couple of times and let a big wad fly. It lands inches from my sneakers in all its yellow/green glory. I smile, pleased at my accomplishment.
Blue and red light flash from behind. I turn to find a cop exiting his vehicle.
“Phlegm is for old people and lung cancer survivors. Looks like I’ma have’a hall y’all in.”
“Y’all? There’s only one of me.”
The cop nods his head, signaling for me to turn around. I do…there…in all his glory is the one and only Benny Hinn who smacks me upon the forehead.
“Your cancer is healed. Walk. Show us the power of God-a, show us what God-a can do-a for you-a.”
“I don’t have cancer. Never have.”
“Really? Well, you do now.”
He runs from me and reaches a gathering of trees. Hiding behind one he signals for the cop to chase him. The cop stares and shrugs his shoulders, unaware of what to do.
“You are Benny Hinn, not Benny Hill!” I yell.
We have a laugh and part ways. I continue on my trek and begin whistling Take on Me by A-Ha. I whistle with such passion that I forget my task. So I sit, close my eyes and die.