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Taxman
You can get gas at a number of different places in this New Orleans neighborhood but the closest to this house is the Chevron station at the corner of Canal and Broad.
I understand the rules of disengagement as they relate to panhandlers on the streets of New York–don’t make eye contact, don’t give away anything, don’t be friendly; kindness is weakness.
Things in the South are different though and it is just plain rude not to make eye contact, and it is my opinion that in some cases the making of eye contact can actually save your life or personal property–like in the sense that it shows that you are aware, not afraid, and not disrespectful. Of course, making eye contact does not infer any of those things but we can all hope for the best out on the streets with panhandlers and armed robbers.
I have a couple of overflowing change cups over on the windowsill to my left so if I’m going out to the corner for gas I will palm a few coins because I can see the future and the future calls for loose coin.
I’m getting out of the truck the other day to slide my plastic through the pay-at-the-pump slot and am forced to ignore the approaching taxman because there is a pile of not fresh vomit on the pavement between myself and the pump. “Ah, disgusting...”
“Excuse me...?”
I’m having to step over it now and my expression is one of total unhappiness. “Ah mane,” I grumbled.
“Excuse me,” the taxman said, “but could you help me out with a little change.”
“Maybe in a sec, brah, let me take care of my business,” I sneered.
“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” taxman said.
“Like what?” I said.
“Like all disgusted,” he said.
“I ain’t even lookin’ at you mane. I’m looking at this pile of almost dried up vomit on the ground here. Shit mane, it’s disgusting.”
“You want me to get somebody to clean it up?” taxman said.
“Nah, I couldn’t handle seeing it all smeared around,” I said.
“I hear ya,” he smiled.
I finished pumping gas, gave the taxman 78 cents, and started walking around the truck towards the little glass fronted booth where one can pay for gas if one hasn’t done it at the pump, or buy cigarettes, beer, candy, and other essentials by putting your money in a stainless steel drawer that gets pushed and pulled in and out of the building. Taxman was at my side.
“You my best friend now?” I asked him.
“No, uh uh, I’m just walkin’ with you,” he chuckled.
We were standing in front of the booth/mini-store, looking inside, and there was nobody there.
“Clarissa!” taxman yelled, “get out here, there somebody needin’ you!”
“Chill mane, let the woman do whatever she’s doing.”
“What are you lookin’ to get?” Taxman said.
“Man, you all up inside my business now ain’t you?” I smiled.
He smiled back. “Aw mane, you all right, I like you.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I’m not going to wait though, I’m going across the street.”
“Well all right then,” taxman said.
But the Rite-Aid is like the 7-11 and they don’t sell the item I was looking for. So, I went back to the Chevron. Clarissa was in her booth.
“So you come back,” taxman said.
“Yeah, Rite-Aid can’t help me,” I said. I got Clarissa’s attention. “I can get a pack of the orange ZZs?” Clarissa nodded and I put a small pile of cash in the drawer because those ZZs aren’t cheap. I waited for taxman to say something about my purchase but my wait was in vain. There was a good bit of change in the drawer though and the taxman’s eyes were glued to it, almost watering like he’s starving hungry and that change is really a bacon and egg sandwich.
“You lookin’ pretty hard at my money,” I said.
“He gonna get that money from you,” Clarissa said.
“Naw, I already took care of him. He’s not the greedy kind.”
Taxman smiled the smile of defeat.
“See ya around,” I said.
“See ya,” taxman said.