The Real Besmirchers of Urban Tranquility

On Thursday, we were driving in that city. That is: myself, the blonde boy from Boston, and the Jordanian lawyer who only spoke in smiles were riding in a purple minivan. Our vocal conversation was fairly one-sided (Bostonians are notorious yakkers). But the Jordanian and I dominated the inaudible communication; permeating the minivan with our glances, gestures, and grins. We came to a controlled intersection. It was nighttime, and the sudden bombardment of stop- and street-lights temporarily smeared my vision; dizzying all five of my sensual perceptions. My vision recovered first, but didn't witness the expected lenitive sight of normal city stoplights. Rather, five feet in front of our purple mini-van, I saw a sword. My glance travelled from its two-edged tip to its hilt, leveraged in a crosswalker's belt. With each lilting step of skulduggery, this crosswalker's sword hit the pavement. It was eerie. He had a knapsack over one shoulder - an unsightly burl protruding from the left shoulder of this unsightly besmircher of normal city scenes. Along with the sword, his belt was looped with fly-fishing gear. "Not your average homeless hunter," the Bostonian commented - interrupting the crosswalker's, my, and the Jordanian's eloquent unutterances. This scene was sullied, yes, but not by sword or silence. The articulations of disregard and of contemptuous feelings - these emotions themselves! - were the real soilers in this situation. The sword scraped the curb as the crosswalker reached the other side. The light turned green and an electronic bird chirped "go!" as our minivan and stratigraphic conversations continued. We were driving in that city on Thursday and I don't know where that man is now. Maybe on some other crosswalk somewhere, helping people feel good about themselves.