Scott and Larry

We went for a birthday walk. Started at the Lone Sailor. Don’t remember Sharon taking my picture at the guy. I really love living here, especially since Sharon likes being here. I just want to keep being relevant, while doing things my legal life and my contempt conviction prevented me from pursuing.

Ambling up Church St. on the inner route near the windows, not that you can window shop or would want to because it ain’t all that interesting, a Park Patrol person in a yellow shirt gave us the functional equivalent of a blinking-bright to move over. We weren’t moving fast enough for him. His citizen’s-I-am-on-a-mission-on-your-behalf order to give him space, caused us to go vertical as he passed, an order that didn’t explain why he could not have moved to the wide berth down the center of the Church St. corridor. With the obligatory-insincere-VT thank you, he passed. We mosied on.

After turning left off Church St., North on College on our way to the Fletcher Free Library to return a book Sharon, a patron of libraries had borrowed, we came to the infamous bus stop, the one where the seats had been removed to deter the roamers from resting on the City’s main thoroughfare.

“Scott, you got $50 for bail,” said the yellow shirt who had verbally sirened us to the roadside.

“Huh? Wha.”

“Got a xxx (some cop code). Have Scott (missed his last name). Open can. Act One….” He chirped into his radio device.

I took my pictures. Scott had pissed on himself. He didn’t recognize me. He is blind. I called his name. He reached out his hand. Sharon moved off, worried I had picked up some disease. I said a couple of words to him. We be friends.

“Don’t take his picture. Leave him some dignity.” The yellow shirt knows the denizens, but he doesn’t know the citizens. This is the conundrum of community policing. He doesn’t realize that there is a constituency for Scott and his Buddies or whom they are. Like, who are you to tell me to leave certain people with their dignity. I usually fight the other side who don’t know they have lost their dignity in the middle lane.

“Me, leave Scott dignity. Have you seen my blog? My name is the Duck. What is your name.” I don’t count for spit here, for a number of reasons. It was my mistake.

“Park Patrol Officer Mews.” Now, I am on record, liking these yellow jersey officers, most of whom seem to be men for some unexplained reason, whom I expect to be present in tomorrowland, when, in a large number of years, I hope, if I have the big one  where I need a defibrillation, or, in the present, a flat tire on the bike path where I need a breath of air to repair a flat, but who think they are training for the Vermont State Police or some other authoritarian organization that limits the rights of citizens, without differentiating the truly different who pay the taxes and support all the classes, according to their personal sense of order, without regard to mine and then expects to be congratulated for their contribution to the body politic. But, as I said to him, “you aren’t telling me I cannot take a picture of what is going on, are you? I live here!” I, now, be into images. Most don’t read.

I left out some of what went on. A lot of it is in my head.

The Officer, Officer Mews, handled himself admirably and professionally, not knowing my piece in the puzzle. Frankly, I don’t know his, either. He put on gloves, poured out the beer in the can, and checked to determine how close Scott had approached nadi sudi land before coming to rest in never-never-land.

So, I moved on to my life, returning the book (a bathroom allowed me to wash my hands, cause who knows where Scott had been or what he had touched), buying food for my birthday dinner, and making my bi-weekly contribution to the education fund which I do by purchasing lotto tickets. At the Handy on South Winooski, across from Healthy Living, I met Larry. He bought something in a plastic box, a sandwich and a drink, non-alcoholic. I stood behind him at the register. He paid with a credit card. He must be doing something right. I waited outside as Sharon exchanged her scratch-offs and put us back into the fantasy mix.

“Can I take your picture?”

“If you give  me $1.40 and buy me a beer.”

“I will give you a $1, but I won’t buy you a beer.”

We look at one another. I stick out my hand. “I am the Duck.”

“I know you.”

“They took Scott.”

“I know I heard it. Why doesn’t Howard help him. He doesn’t see. He’s a little off, you know. And he drinks too much (a little impish smile indicating a affection and association for those of us who drink, sometimes to excess as we review where we have been and the wounds it has left).”

“Sharon and I just had the same discussion.”

“They didn’t hurt him when they picked him up.”

“Not while I was there.”

“Thanks for looking out for us.”

“Hey, babe, you be my people.”