hand a little closer, the feline would inch
STEEP himself backward a little bit. So, then the
SLOPES 'm not going to hurt you." And after a
with Garry Scott Davis
THE MEETING
We stood on a rain-soaked.
sidewalk. We stood very still and
quiet. It was near the end of an
evening on a dreary, dark day in early
September. The sky was blotched
grey and the sun hadn't been out for days.
But we didn't really care, because here in
the ghetto, the streets always look the
same no matter what kind of day it is
anyway. Garbage cans were toppled over
and trash was scattered about the streets.
Graffiti of every imaginable color was
splashed onto the faces of the brick walls
and wooden fences. children could be
heard screaming and laughing in the
distance. Lights began to flick on in the
upstairs windows of the old, weathered
buildings, and a couple of young marrieds
could be heard arguing and fighting two
houses away. Doors were being slammed
and vases broken. Various babies were
crying. Three houses further, a teenaged
girl stood naked in front of a mirror and
worried about getting fat. Young girls cried
and boyfriends lied. And somewhere else,
someone realized he was getting old. Cars
sped by with music playing loud and a
young mother of two swallowed some pills
and looked for more dust to speed up
her day.
But we still stood still. And we laughed to
ourselves at everything around us. I mean,
it was all such a great, big joke. At the time,
I was about 20 years of age and he was an
old man of about 60 or 65, and he had
obviously been through it all long, long
before as lines had formed on his face and
hands. Lines had formed on the left and
right, and his weathered and whiskered
features contrasted sharply with my clean
shaven face and youthful white skin.
Having attained an old age, he was wise in
the ways of society, and he didn't seem to
mind my long hair because he knew it
didn't matter at all what I looked like. And
on the same tone, I didn't mind his old, dirty
brown hat and the bottle of really, really
expensive wine in his hand. He took a sip
from the bottle, and suddenly, the silence
on the corner there was broken:
"Hey, watchoo gonna do wih that thang.
boy! Ah think yore fixin' to break yore
neck!" he said.
He was talking about my skateboard. My
mind was blank and I didn't even know
what to say. I was standing there holding
my skate by the front truck with the tail
barely grazing the ground. I started tapping
the tail up and down against the sidewalk,
just to have something to do, I mean, it was
all de-laminated anyway. So, I started
tapping away, and the sound echoed and
bounced kind of eerily down through this
dark, dank alley that was just across the
way. So, I looked down in there, and there
was this kid that was trying to pet a cat that
was next to this empty box. And the cat
was obviously very cautious and afraid,
because each time the kid would move his
kid called softly: "Here, kitty! C'mon kitty,
minute or two, the kitty finally started to feel
at ease, and responded. The boy almost
had his hand on the kitty to start petting
him, but then, all of a sudden, out of
nowhere, this other kid ran up screaming
and yelling: "Hey, Pete!!!! Watcha doin'
with that cat!!?" And due to the young lad's
very loud, obnoxious voice, the feline
quickly ran off in fright. The two boys
started arguing.
"Hey, did you see that?!!" I said. "If
everyone would have just kept quiet, that
kid could be petting that cat right now!"
My old friend had no response. He just
stood there staring down into the street
scene. Hardly anyone, it was evident, was
out this evening. It was too dark and wet
outside, I guess. But not for US!
"What's yore name, boy!" the old man
finally spoke.
"Garry," I replied. "You can call me that,
you know. I mean, just if you want to."
Nothing. It was getting to be twilight out,
as it was just a few minutes past sundown.
The deep shadows in the alley across the
walk now matched the color of the sky
straight above. And since it had just rained
a while ago, there seemed to be somewhat
of a haze hanging in the air. But we stood
on that corner still, and watched the clones
passing by. If you stood there long enough,
you would undoubtedly see every type in
the book walk by. Businessmen, jocks,
girls in black leather, valley clones, winos,
kids, old folks, and on and on. I even saw
a skater walk by carrying his board by the
front truck just like I was. He was a
hardcore skater, probably going to some
secret spot that I had already been to that
morning. And he had probably been there
yesterday and the day before that. He was
a hardcore. I could just tell. He nodded at
me and I nodded back. Nothing needed to
be said. He walked on.
We continued to remain silent there for a
while longer, almost as dead as a desert
night, until finally:
"What're you doin' out on a night like
this, boy!? Weather like this ain't much fit
fer a growing boy like you!"
"Nothing else to do," I said.
"Well, where's your family at? Where's
your home?"
"Ain't got one. I'm on my own."
"Well, I guess that makes us partners in
crime, eh, boy?" he then laughed this really
old hoarse laugh.
"Yeah, partners in crime," I replied.
Heck, our only crime was not fitting in. A
little later, he took a hit off of his bottle and
sat down on the steps of this old, worn
building right there on the corner.
"Do you like music, boy?" the old man
inquired. He belched.
"Only sometimes," I said.
"Well here, let me play ye a little tune."
Then he took this harmonica out of his
coat pocket and started tooting this little
song. It was a little bit off key, but hell,
when you stop and think about it, every-
thing's a little bit off key. He was playing
this song that I hadn't heard since I was a
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