Wednesday, December 9, 2009

We Slept.

Here it is Wednesday.
Yesterday, I met Doug the Drummer and we played at the parking garage.
Karrie Draws Suspicion
Karrie showed up wearing a leather jacket which she said was given to her by a guy in a car.
She said she hadn't made any money.
She then told me about some oak wood which she had seen at a spot where she goes to hide and drink. If she hadn't made anything, then, what was she doing at her drinking spot?

She was exibiting the symptoms of alcohol consumption, which I have come to recognize in her.
She also asked me for a cigarette, to give to some guy. "He say's that I'm the light of his life," was her response to my inquiry as to whom she was giving one of my precious cigarettes to. She usually GETS me cigarettes and this was the first time that she asked one of me. Who is more important to her than me, was my thought.
Doug the Drummer and I hadn't drummed up more than 4 bucks and, when Karrie showed up, she said that she had a beer.
Then, she encouraged me to spend the 4 bucks on a 4 pack. I thought that it would be economical to spend this way, so that I could share with Doug the Drummer. Karrie returned with the 4 pack and then wanted one of them. I told her to drink her's before it became warm. "I want to save it," she said. Now I was thinking that whomever gave her the jacket had probably took her somewhere and smoked crack with her.
I refused to give her one of the beers. She pouted and then got on her bike and left.
I got back to camp and Karrie was curled up and sleeping. The leather jacket had been (symbolically, I think) thrown onto the ground. The shirt she had been wearing was draped over the broom which she uses every morning to sweep out the tent. My bed had been made on one side of the tent, and she was laying to the extreme other side, giving me the room which I complain about not having. There were two buckets of water by the fire-pit and the food which we had found that morning and placed in the cooler and hidden, was sitting there. The holy candle with Mary and a prayer on it, was lit and positioned so as to cast its holy glow upon her.
"Guilty," I thought.
I Pour Hot Wax On Her
I picked up the holy candle with Mother Mary on it and, in my half-drunken rage, poured hot wax on her shoulder. She didn't even wake up.
I went for a walk to calm down. I visited the other camp, where the other homeless gentlemen put me through sort of an inquisition:
"Do you think that you have been attentive to her needs?," they asked.
I thought of romantic scenes from Hollywood, where the guy waxes poetic, staring into the girl's eyes and telling her that she is his moon and sun and stars, to boot, and that, without her he would be like a ship without a sea...
"No, probably not.'
"Well, there you go." They went on to say that "possesiveness" stems from caring about someone and fearing losing them, etc.


"Do you consider it a serious relationship?" was thrown "out there," too.
They basically told me that Karrie had been there at their camp, looking for me when I wasn't around and that she seemed lost without me. That's why she tangles me up at night so that I can't leave without waking her, much like a cat will do, I thought.
This particular homeless gentleman then said: "I don't know if you noticed it, but Karrie has the mind of a 9 year old girl."
"13," I said. "She's already interested in boys."
I went back to camp, being "cooled down," and not feeling so posessive. I peeled the wax off her shoulder, so that she wouldn't wonder about it, although I knew that she couldn't have slept through a hot waxing without having been given something by the mysterious guy who gave her a leather jacket.


We slept.


In the morning, it was revealed that she indeed had a fifth of vodka, as she sat up in the tent and began, bright and early, to gulp it down and chase it with the ginger ale, which I bought, because I know that she likes ginger ale, maybe not hot wax, but ginger ale for sure.


Music At Its Best


Now, I go to meet Doug the Drummer at the spot at the parking garage.


Our tent is in tatters. My boots are coming apart at the seams. My glasses are broken and I am learning to correct my vision by causing my eyes to tear up, which forms a natural lens. My backpack is too small to think about travelling to spots around the country where they are not trying to run street musicians out ("Ashville, North Carolina; It's a hippie community and they love the street performers," according to Nick the Flute Player) But, on the positive side, I think my music is at its best right now....


As for Karrie, I don't know....machetes, hot wax...where will it end??

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