Same Old Story

Lost in Translation

Author Whisperer

It had been a long time since I'd seen that multilingual shape shifter in the alley near Think-A-Holic Lounge. This was the sleeping bum I tried to give a ride home one day (see the Stalking the Wild Think-A-Holic posting, then the Froggy Night posting, then the Lost in Translation posting) before I realized that he probably didn't have a home, before I realized that he was more than likely a figment of my think-a-hol-fueled imagination and way before I finally came to the shocking conclusion that this hobo was, himself, some sort of cosmic warning for me, in regard to one possible future. A future I just might have if no one took me and my novella seriously. The very sight of him made me feel less like an an alter ego and more like the real McCoy, I don't care what anybody says.

I snapped this picture of the mystery man last night with my cell phone camera after I'd stumbled down the front steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge around dusk, full of think-a-hol and bubbly chasers and happy thoughts. It was my own stupid fault and dumb luck that I'd chosen to take the alleyway home instead of the front sidewalk. I figured I'd save half a block that way and be able to catch the last few minutes of the latest news on cable TV about Wall Street, not realizing that this is how low I'd sunk.

When I first spotted him, he just stood there and watched me pass, waiting for me to speak to him so he could reply in another language, making some cryptic remark that would make me doubt my very existence. But I wasn't going to play his game anymore. I just shuffled along through the leaves and the puddles that were scattered about after the last unpredicted shower, making haste for my comfy couch back home. As I passed by him he spoke.

"Good things come to those who wait," whispered the mystical man.

But I didn't answer him. I didn't even turn around. I ran and ran and never looked back. And when I got home I made a cup of tea with honey in it and sipped it while listening to old vinyl recordings of Simon & Garfunkel until it was dark. And then I went to bed and, for the first time in my entire life, I did not dream.

Lost in Translation

Last Wednesday around six o'clock I rolled down the steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge a little later than usual from having my afternoon shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser. And that was because I'd had several of them in a row and that kind of dedicated imbibing takes a wee bit of time.

Anyway, across the alley I spotted this sorry-looking jasper (see pic) sitting in front of an old abandoned garage that had been slated for demolition sometime in the last century but which remained standing due to a lack of code enforcement in this part of the galaxy. I felt sorry for the old coot and asked him if he needed a ride somewhere.

"No hablo Español," he replied without even looking my way and despite the fact that I had spoken to him in English, not Spanish.

I thought I'd try asking him the same question again, even though he still refused to look me squarely in the eye.

"Je ne comprends pas le français," the old coot said, still not looking at me. Why he thought I was speaking French was beyond me. I tried to ask him if he needed a ride anywhere one more time. And in English, again, because that's the only language I know.

"Ich verstehe nicht Deutsches," he replied in fluent German.

That did it for me. I had no intentions of asking him any more questions. I was actually more miffed by his refusal to look at me than by his insistence that I was speaking to him in languages other than English. I decided to approach him and see if that would make him look at me. But, when I stood right in front of him, I could see that the crazy old codger was asleep. And with his eyes open.

I left him there as he began to snore. Then I went home and profusely thanked my lucky stars that the old man on the bench was not me.