Last Fall, it was a brisk day, in the low 50's. I was only wearing a Tee shirt. I was watching basketball while standing on the corner of West 4th and 6th Avenue. That's the Big Apple, NYC. I was on my way to the subway until I saw out of the corner of my eye a short skinny white kid nail nearly a full court shot . West 4th basketball courts are very popular, draw a load of quality players, but it's not regulation sized. Basically it's a small court in a cage. Still, the kid made a great shot. As I stood there I watched him nail four more shots just like it. He was playing with big guys, no doubt college players.
She was in a rush, bumped into me as she tried to get through the small crowd at the top of the subway stairs watching the skinny kid lacing three's. She was an old girlfriend from 15 years ago. She was incredibly hot back then. She had dumped me for a dude who apparently had his act together, worked for George Soros' Open Society Foundation. She looked frazzled, had gained weight, chunky, and considering her jittery disposition and a twitch or two, she likely was on meds. Years ago she meant the world to me. After the skinny kid nailed his fifth straight full court shot, this time with some big dude in his face, her and I both cheered - along with the rest of the plebs standing around. I recognized an old gleam in her eyes which used to knock my socks off. In the past she'd always been sweet with me. She was a Columbia University graduate. I was uneducated. Life can wear you down, I guess, because the sharpness of her words had faded dramatically. She had married the Open Society dude and divorced him after 7 years when she discovered he was cruising gay bars and having random sex behind St John The Divine Church on his late night strolls. "He told me it was his thinking time," she said. She was telling me too much. I thought she was about to cry. She told me she'd been working for the DNC for a number of years but not anymore. She waits on tables out in Bushwick. She has tattoos of bluebirds on both sides of her neck. If she had opened her coat and flashed me I would've guessed she was covered in tattoos. People do change. I had a moment, remembering her ink-less skin, as soft as stuffed animals. I told her what I was up to, basically work. "I wrote a book," I told her, "Now I sell Tee shirts." She liked that a lot, the gleam in her eye glowed. "Anarchy Tee shirts," I said. She flinched. "Anarchy! Why?" she asked. "Because I'm an Anacrhist," I said. "No your not," she said. I politely gestured the truth. She shrugged, took a step back, nervous. She had to run, didn't say goodbye, nearly tripped down the stairs. Maybe it was her meds. I was upset. Let down. A bit confused. Dazed. Then the skinny kid hit another three and just as the crowd let a raucous cheer, I knew what I was doing with my life was right, it's what the world needs: The Rebirth of Anarchy.
I hope you check out my new line of Tees and good stuff at AntiStar.us