Over the past few weeks i have a couple of midday runins with the same intoxicated man. Let's call him "Jim." Let's call him that mostly because I can't remember his actual name. The first time I met Jim it was just after he got into a nasty fight with those "big ducks" they have down in the pond by the zoo. I have taken this to mean either the still-migrating Canada Geese or those big plastic swan-shaped paddleboats you can rent out on summer afternoons. I sincerely hope its the latter.

This time Jim muttered something about a lingerie model and asking if my name was still "Joe Bob." When i said it wasn't, he borrowed a pen and started to write my name across his knuckles like a prison tattoo. Only stopping when realizing that he didn't want to look dirty for his date with the lingerie model. We did some collaborative poetry, each supplying every other word and punctuation. Jim's contribution underlined below:

What in the
Why are these Days so long,
let's get out of here.

He warned me against getting "faggy" on him when I added "let's."

Our private poetry slam ended abruptly when he sprayed Lysol Disinfectant from an aerosol he found under each of his arms and told me that he had to "go pick up a whore." "at this hour?" "I'm always ready," he replied.

Jim pointed at me, said "you owe me one," and left.

I actually sort of look forward to these encounters.

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