Around the corner from the Chelsea, on Seventh Avenue, I was waiting for a friend to ride the subway uptown. There were two homeless men camped out near the entrance to the subway. They were old, or at least they appeared old, their faces worn and weathered.
“Fuck the salad,” the bigger one said. He was paunchy for a homeless man, and had wavy, 
gray, uncombed hair. “Roast beef and mashed potatoes, plenty of gravy. Fuck the salad,” he repeated, for emphasis.
“Gotta eat the salad,” the smaller, thinner one said. “Gotta have your vegetables, fresh vegetables, or else you’ll get sick. ‘Specially with all the drinkin’ we do.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” the big one said. “Sick how?”
“Just sick, that’s all. How the fuck do I know? Your teeth’ll fall out! Your fuckin’ dick’ll shrivel up and drop off!”
The bigger man paused to reconsider his position in the face of these threats. “Still, it tastes so bad,” he said.
“That’s what the dressing is for, you dumbass,” the smaller man said.
They were too preoccupied with their discussion to even bother hitting me up for money. (Copyright 2006 Ed Hamilton)
Recent Comments