A speck on a speck

There's no point in me being concerned with the daily news.  Every day there's headlines of a mass shooting, some awful politician, some natural catastrophe.  I still think it's important to be informed, but there's not much I can do (or know how to do) about an entire culture or the laws and systems that surround me.  What I DO know how to do is write.  Draw.  Create.  Make food.  Take care of Katy.  But the constant barrage of depressing news every day makes it difficult to do those things.  My time, energy, and heart are spent being anxious about the state of the world rather than the few small things that I'm good at and can offer/contribute to the world.  I know my small creations may produce only the tiniest of ripples into the world, but at least they are originating from a place of love and passion.  I am merely a speck on a speck on a speck, yet my core is strong.  

Sandwich Guy

 

The sandwich guy stood there, sweating, his mouth slightly open yet breathing loudly through his nose.  When he looked at me, it was never for more than a moment before his eyes darted away, and then eventually back to me again.

“Not now,” I said.

“Why not now?”  the sandwich guy said.

“Because I’ll get caught,” I said.

“If anything goes wrong,” the sandwich guy said, “just go to the casino.  Do you know what that means?  I mean, if you find yourself out of fucking options, then just take what you got and go to the casino.   Why?  Because, dipshit, that’s the best you got.  At least you know Rick.  He’s not the kind of guy that’s gonna double your odds, but he’s as good as you’re gonna get tonight, know what I mean?  Look.  If you’re having second thoughts, don’t do the job, but if you’re gonna do it, we’re gonna do it right and we’re all going to make a lot of money.  But if you fuck it up, they’re going to find you, and they’re going to fucking kill you.  Slowly!  If that wasn’t already clear.  Ok?  Ok, we’re all good?  So, what’s it gonna be?  You gonna to say yes, for once in your life, shithead?”

I’ve been down on my luck before.  I’ve been at the tail end of a blackout night, covered in puke while my ride home was closing the door on me.  I’ve watched the guards walking towards me, the alarm blaring through the entire building, and everyone’s eyes on my pockets.  The dogs have had my scent, the hammer was coming down, the lights were turning off.  And I made it out.  Every time.  Unscathed.  I’ve made it through every single jam that seemed to be insurmountable at the time.  I’m very proud of that.  So why was I hesitant to go along with the sandwich guy’s scheme?  Because of fucking fireworks. 

The sandwich guy knew, during lockdown in South Philly, there would be fireworks going off over all the row homes.  Every fucking night of the summer.  No one was going down the shore, no one would be congregating around the usual fireworks displays over the water.  The police were occupied with putting down the riots in the streets.  In fact, some people even claimed that the police themselves were setting off massive fireworks and sound grenades, just to scare people into staying indoors.  It wasn’t a time where loud bangs and explosions reverberating over the rows of townhomes caused much of a stir.  It had become commonplace.