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| Bum transactions by Ray of Light 04/03/2009, 7:26am PDT | ||||
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| 1.) Two Octobers ago, I was on the front patio of a bar in Montreal, at night. Some friends and I drove down to play in a poker tournament, got knocked out (of the tournament) and were holding court on this cold, chairless patio. A smiling old black guy came along with his hat out.
"Yuh yuh," said he. Holding a kilo of change from minor cash purchases incurred on a road trip, I found it easy to relax my "no money for bums" policy. A toonie from me, two cigarettes from a third guy, random change from others. He said thanks bum-style, it came out "Heyyyaaah." Then he stood there, looking happy and holding his hat. I made eye contact a second time, and he looked at his hat. "I'll play you rock-paper-scissors for double or nothing the contents of your hat," I offer. "Yuh," he nods. "We'll play best of three, is that ok?" "Yuh" "Do you understand?" I mime an RPS throw, and make each sigil as I slowly repeat the game's name. I point to his hat and list the two possible outcomes. He nods again and says "Yuh," and makes a fist. "On three, like before." He throws rock to my paper and I explain that I've won the first round. He responds by taking the two cigs off the table, scooping them out of the hat with his right (throwing) hand. He goes to set up for round two and realizes that, holding the cigs, he can only make scissors. He looks in my eyes and knows I see it too. There is an awkward silence. "You can only make scissors now." "Yuh." Eyes downcast and he is less upbeat. It's obvious he cannot continue and I let him out of the bet. He smiles and shakes his hat at me again. "I believe you're already two dollars to the good against me," I remind him. "Yuh," and he shuffles off. 2.) Yesterday. I quit smoking earlier in the week, and experience shows that long walks are a good counter for the fits of nervous energy that accompany quitting. In the midst of a long daytime walk, twirling my lighter over my knuckles (getting good at it now -- maybe 40 cycles/minute -- it took six years to learn this skill), I saw a native guy with the puffy, misshapen face of an elite alcoholic. He was coming down the street, holding a cig and stopping people to ask for a light. At twenty paces he saw me and I held the lighter up right away. We close, I hand it over, he lights up. Then he makes a pristine John Player's Special appear from somewhere in his clothes, and hands it to me. "Thank you," I say, and he says "you're welcome." I lit and smoked it right there. |
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