wore sandals with sweatpants and a suit jacket over that.
Our relationship began after I met him out front of a grocery store where he was asking for change and he asked me to buy him a chicken dinner from the store and I bought the chicken dinner for him and we became—I think—friends.
The only time I asked him his name he told me it was “Bob-Fred.”
Two first names hyphenated.
That’s how he said it.
Tonight he approached in a strange walk that involved lifting his knees up abnormally high, his face doing odd twitches as he put condiments on a hotdog, everything backlit by police and emergency lights.
It was beautiful to watch Uncle Sam walk through the light.
He was beautiful.
“Luh me a hotdog,” he said, twitching.
I said, “Yeah”—squinting at the light.
Uncle Sam told me it was a hostage situation and then explained to me the way he likes to eat a hotdog, applying condiments to the one in his hand.
He said, “Dude like me, I’m pu’n spirals on a hamburger, and fo a hotdog, I wind em back and forth.”
“Double-helix style,” I said, suddenly wanting to ask him so many questions.
He looked at me.
He pointed at me with the fingers holding the mustard packet, and said, “S’a double hee-liss style, yuh.”
He rubbed his twitching face against the shoulder of his suit coat and made a weird motion with his lips, like he’d just put on a new face over his skull and was aligning the lips with the teeth.
Behind us, someone who’d been evacuated from the train explained what happened, on her cellphone.
A prisoner—in transport to another jail—killed two police officers and escaped the bus and got on the Red Line and got off at the Wilson stop, then killed someone and took someone else hostage to the rooftop of a nearby apartment building.
Police and civilian death.
Uncle Sam continued putting condiments on his hotdog.
He said, “Jesus luh you no matter what you do. Yuh yuh. But you can’t get into heaven with nunna them acka-hol and cigrets, oh no.”
Then he took many small bites of the hotdog without chewing each bite, leaving only 1/3 of the hotdog.
He squeezed mustard from the shriveled packet onto the end of the hotdog, like he was painting.
Full-mouthed, he said, “Yuh. Dude like me want mustard on eyrbite. Bah-zam! Blam a lam. Dude like me want mustard each and eyr bite, yuh. And you caint get inta heaven wit nunna them acka-hol and cigrets doe.”
“Good shit,” I said. “So the train’s not running.”
He swallowed and laughed, stamping his feet.
He said, “Muh fucka keewd a cop, now they keew him, watch.”
Uncle Sam pointed at the rooftop with his mustard packet. “Man, send me in thuh. I fuck s’ass up. Cuh Jesus luh you no matter what.”
“Me and you,” I said. “We both go in, we both come out.”
I held out my hand.
“Yuh,” he said, moving the hotdog towards my extended hand as a sign he’d shake my hand if his hand was free.
I said, “All right, I’m going to the liquor store to get a phone card for my shitty ass phone.”
“Yuh,” he said.
“Or maybe not, should I just throw this phone against the ground,”
I said. “How about that.”
“Yuh,” he said, laughing. “Jesus luh you no matter what.”
He was smiling, face twitching.
I took out my phone and threw it—with authority—against the ground.
The phone broke apart.
Uncle Sam laughed and put his face to the inside of his elbow and repeatedly made a motion with the hand holding the hotdog, as if he were throwing the hotdog like a paper airplane.
There were news channels everywhere.
Helicopters.
“He gon surrender,” said Uncle Sam. “Muh-fuckiss always surrender.”
And he seemed so disappointed, like he’d seen this before.
Like maybe just once it’d be nice to see no surrender.
I said, “Only pussies surrender, man.”
Uncle Sam laughed.
He coughed harshly, bending at the knees a little.
Tophat waving just a little with each cough.
No, don’t
Our relationship began after I met him out front of a grocery store where he was asking for change and he asked me to buy him a chicken dinner from the store and I bought the chicken dinner for him and we became—I think—friends.
The only time I asked him his name he told me it was “Bob-Fred.”
Two first names hyphenated.
That’s how he said it.
Tonight he approached in a strange walk that involved lifting his knees up abnormally high, his face doing odd twitches as he put condiments on a hotdog, everything backlit by police and emergency lights.
It was beautiful to watch Uncle Sam walk through the light.
He was beautiful.
“Luh me a hotdog,” he said, twitching.
I said, “Yeah”—squinting at the light.
Uncle Sam told me it was a hostage situation and then explained to me the way he likes to eat a hotdog, applying condiments to the one in his hand.
He said, “Dude like me, I’m pu’n spirals on a hamburger, and fo a hotdog, I wind em back and forth.”
“Double-helix style,” I said, suddenly wanting to ask him so many questions.
He looked at me.
He pointed at me with the fingers holding the mustard packet, and said, “S’a double hee-liss style, yuh.”
He rubbed his twitching face against the shoulder of his suit coat and made a weird motion with his lips, like he’d just put on a new face over his skull and was aligning the lips with the teeth.
Behind us, someone who’d been evacuated from the train explained what happened, on her cellphone.
A prisoner—in transport to another jail—killed two police officers and escaped the bus and got on the Red Line and got off at the Wilson stop, then killed someone and took someone else hostage to the rooftop of a nearby apartment building.
Police and civilian death.
Uncle Sam continued putting condiments on his hotdog.
He said, “Jesus luh you no matter what you do. Yuh yuh. But you can’t get into heaven with nunna them acka-hol and cigrets, oh no.”
Then he took many small bites of the hotdog without chewing each bite, leaving only 1/3 of the hotdog.
He squeezed mustard from the shriveled packet onto the end of the hotdog, like he was painting.
Full-mouthed, he said, “Yuh. Dude like me want mustard on eyrbite. Bah-zam! Blam a lam. Dude like me want mustard each and eyr bite, yuh. And you caint get inta heaven wit nunna them acka-hol and cigrets doe.”
“Good shit,” I said. “So the train’s not running.”
He swallowed and laughed, stamping his feet.
He said, “Muh fucka keewd a cop, now they keew him, watch.”
Uncle Sam pointed at the rooftop with his mustard packet. “Man, send me in thuh. I fuck s’ass up. Cuh Jesus luh you no matter what.”
“Me and you,” I said. “We both go in, we both come out.”
I held out my hand.
“Yuh,” he said, moving the hotdog towards my extended hand as a sign he’d shake my hand if his hand was free.
I said, “All right, I’m going to the liquor store to get a phone card for my shitty ass phone.”
“Yuh,” he said.
“Or maybe not, should I just throw this phone against the ground,”
I said. “How about that.”
“Yuh,” he said, laughing. “Jesus luh you no matter what.”
He was smiling, face twitching.
I took out my phone and threw it—with authority—against the ground.
The phone broke apart.
Uncle Sam laughed and put his face to the inside of his elbow and repeatedly made a motion with the hand holding the hotdog, as if he were throwing the hotdog like a paper airplane.
There were news channels everywhere.
Helicopters.
“He gon surrender,” said Uncle Sam. “Muh-fuckiss always surrender.”
And he seemed so disappointed, like he’d seen this before.
Like maybe just once it’d be nice to see no surrender.
I said, “Only pussies surrender, man.”
Uncle Sam laughed.
He coughed harshly, bending at the knees a little.
Tophat waving just a little with each cough.
No, don’t
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