He knew she was looking at him. He didn't even look up, just kept scratching his leg – well, it itched: probably some insect bite of some kind. St. Augustine was warm for an April day – mid 80s, the voice said from an open car window; no wonder the insects were out. The usual crowds were out on St. George Street eating ice cream french fries, drinking everything from water in bottles,to soda in cups and booze in plastic wineglasses. The pizza and hamburger joints were busy as well as all the fancier pla
ces. He didn't understand all the talk about the bad economy since it seemed just as many people were spending the same money as in other years. But then, his personal economy was always bad, and he also spent the same money as in other years, the same income from street-begging (he liked 'pan-handling' better) limited by the time in-between the cops on the bikes' telling him to 'move it'. He always smiled at that: 'move it' meaning move to the next store-front? the next street? the next county? The next state? The cops never told him, never went beyond 'move it'.
He wandered south on the street to the Cathedral Basilica, and joined the wedding party inside. It was crowded , and he always was given a lot of personal space – maybe some
thing to do with the lack of washing up or showering for a week now – pure laziness on his part: he could have gone out to the beach and used the showers there – just didn't.
Back out on the street, he saw this guy leaning against a beautiful car – his photo being taken by a pretty lady with one of those digital cameras, while another pretty lady watched. Some guys have all the luck, he thought. In truth, the guy was better looking than him, and probably smelled better.
He loved all the sights in this historic area of a city that's been around since 1565. He watched a group of nuns, 'sisters' he used to call them in school, the Dominican Order, he heard one of them telling those same two pretty ladies. The 'sisters' were young and cute, and friendly, nothing like the teachers at the parochial school when he was a kid. Where had he been a kid?
Growing up where? And when? He couldn't remember any more. Seems like he had thoughts at times of wives and kids, but wasn't able to get any detail in his mind – no specific memories. He told himself a man should be aware of a history, a previous time and place, experiences, but every attempt drew only vague and hazy responses.
He'd spent part of the afternoon outside the Castillo de San Marcos fort – cost $7 to get inside now – and saw the volunteers in hot woolly uniforms marching and then heard the cannon they shot as part of th
e entertainment you got for your $7. When it was free, there were no cannon shots or people in uniforms. (Other than the cops who are telling him, aga
in, 'move it').
The plaza and gazebo in front of the Cathedral Basilica was where he 'moved-it' to, his home for the night.
ces. He didn't understand all the talk about the bad economy since it seemed just as many people were spending the same money as in other years. But then, his personal economy was always bad, and he also spent the same money as in other years, the same income from street-begging (he liked 'pan-handling' better) limited by the time in-between the cops on the bikes' telling him to 'move it'. He always smiled at that: 'move it' meaning move to the next store-front? the next street? the next county? The next state? The cops never told him, never went beyond 'move it'.He wandered south on the street to the Cathedral Basilica, and joined the wedding party inside. It was crowded , and he always was given a lot of personal space – maybe some
thing to do with the lack of washing up or showering for a week now – pure laziness on his part: he could have gone out to the beach and used the showers there – just didn't.Back out on the street, he saw this guy leaning against a beautiful car – his photo being taken by a pretty lady with one of those digital cameras, while another pretty lady watched. Some guys have all the luck, he thought. In truth, the guy was better looking than him, and probably smelled better.
He loved all the sights in this historic area of a city that's been around since 1565. He watched a group of nuns, 'sisters' he used to call them in school, the Dominican Order, he heard one of them telling those same two pretty ladies. The 'sisters' were young and cute, and friendly, nothing like the teachers at the parochial school when he was a kid. Where had he been a kid?
Growing up where? And when? He couldn't remember any more. Seems like he had thoughts at times of wives and kids, but wasn't able to get any detail in his mind – no specific memories. He told himself a man should be aware of a history, a previous time and place, experiences, but every attempt drew only vague and hazy responses.He'd spent part of the afternoon outside the Castillo de San Marcos fort – cost $7 to get inside now – and saw the volunteers in hot woolly uniforms marching and then heard the cannon they shot as part of th
e entertainment you got for your $7. When it was free, there were no cannon shots or people in uniforms. (Other than the cops who are telling him, aga
in, 'move it').The plaza and gazebo in front of the Cathedral Basilica was where he 'moved-it' to, his home for the night.
2 comments:
I liked the alternate point of view of your trip - emphasizing the fact that we are all just "extras" in other people's lives.
What a fun way to post your pictures of your trip.
Maybe your story will continue with your next trip and you will see that same man somewhere new.
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