No matter where you go, There you are

NOTE: Inspired by consumerism, apathy and a good friend Mike Dos Santos



“It’s like a fucking bee hive in that bitch.” Mike said searching his pockets for his gloves. “All that frantic motion, niggas crawling over other niggas. Half them niggas I didn’t even know.”
“That’s a pretty amazing analogy, Mike.” I told Santos before taking a drag from my cigarette. I guess crowed house parties are a lot like bee hives. Mike was prone to saying insightful shit, in between all the ignorant shit that is.
“Thank you, nigga.” Mike said. He adds ‘nigga’ on to the end of ever sentence, almost like a un official period. It’s like some weird tourretes tick, no matter how elegant the statement is, no matter how poetic or discursive, it didn’t feel right to him with a ‘nigga’ thrown into it. He made white people uncomfortable. I never understood why white people get so tense when they hear the ‘N’ word. Their eyes dart around like a nervous child, it’s like they feel guilty for even thinking about it. Wasn’t it white people who first coined the phrase? If I made up a word, no matter how taboo of offensive, I’d say it every day. I’d get it printed of shirts and buttons, I’d even get it on my license plate; ‘Nigga 41.’
We stood outside the house were the party was taking place, it was early December, glove and knit cap weather. In 20 years of life, It saddens me to say I’ve never been able to keep a pair of gloves for more than 3 weeks. I always loose them, when I was a kid I used to have those clips that attached my gloves to the cuffs of my coats, I wondered where I could purchase those. Mike wore finger less gloves. Stylish? Sure, but far from functional. But beauty is pain, and I guess having frost bite means you must be pretty damn beautiful. I thought about trash cans fires and hobos wearing the same type of gloves as Mike huddled around them. Then it hit me like a brick to the spine.
“We should bring a hobo to that party.” I crack a wide, teeth bearing smile. Mike smirked, dismissing it as a joke. But I held eye contact, and that smile slide further up my face. Mike’s face and age make him easy to read. I stare right into those doo-doo brown eyes and I can tell he’s working things out, his smirk parts and confusion paints his face.
“Wait, you serious?”
“Serious as Syphilis dude.”
He strokes his beard a moment. He’s 18 but wears facial that hides his baby face and makes him look mid twenties. If he didn’t shave he’d have a full fledged wizard beard, I’m talking Gandalf from Lord of The Rings.
“Think about how incredible that would be Mike. A certified bum walking around that party. Just all toothless and stinky and crazy. It would be the funniest shit ever.” I’m getting more excited by the second, and Mikes hesitation is melting.
“Nigga they wouldn’t let no bum in.” Mike shakes his head but I nod like bobble head in fast forward.
“Why wouldn’t they, I’ll give the dude the five dollars and if he gives me shit, I’ll give him an extra five.”
“Damn nigga, You’re willing to pay ten dollars to get a bum into a party?”
“I’m willing to pay whatever, nigga.” My dealings with Mike have taught me that the N word is contagious. “Think about it dude, It’s December, 5 months into the school year, nothing new anymore. Same girls, same dudes, its pretty much the same party every weekend. Promoters don’t even have fun anymore, they throw parties to make money now, I mean, when’s the last time you’ve had a distinctive memory from a party? Now imagine how sick of a memory it would be if we brought a bum inside.”
Mike rubs his face and starts to laugh. “Nigga, Alright. Let’s get a bum.”
And with that we were off, in search of a vagrant. Being homeless is a really bizarre condition. It’s like being invisible. Bum spend all their days looking at people walk by, with clothes they can’t wear, cars they can’t drive. They see us holding hands, and answering phones and they know they’ll never hold that hand or answer that phone. It must be pretty fucking miserable. The least me and Mike could do is get this bum a lap dance and a beer or two.
But first we had to find one. We walked the dimly lit streets......

NOTE: HAHA, you thought I was going to finish it didnt you? Who do you think I am, a good writer?