Wearing Thin

I'm at the deli/general store. The parrot named Kehau sits on his branch and cleans his feathers.

Part of this scene is wearing thin. Last night, I walked into town and at the banyan tree, this glassy-eyed teen started following me, so I stopped and leaned up against a post and watched him. That confused him and he slowed down and then did a slow, erratic, not-casual loop on the periphery around me. He mumbled some gibberish threat as if I was the trouble-maker here. I just kept a casual eye on him and never said a word.

This morning, one of the staggering, recurring bums started with, "Hey brother, could you . . ." I held up my hand, walked away and heard his voice go from plead to threat, "I'll punch you," etc . . . as he walked away.

You know, I'm just not interested.

My dad used to talk about how everyone said hi in Aspen. He would take that home to Rochester with him. He would say hi on the street there. After a couple of days of people looking at him like he's weird or not acknowledging him at all, he stopped.

I've learned to walk a little more aggressively here. I've learned not to say hi. I've learned about no eye contact and to maintain a tough guy poker face with a touch of menace in it.

I'm not interested in becoming that guy out of necessity. It's b.s.