the Mexican at the Max stop

"What's up, man?" a face I recognized motioned toward me with the jerk of its neck. The man was a Mexican. The Mexican was at the Max stop. I saw the Mexican at the Max stop yesterday. I saw the Mexican at the Max stop again this morning. The Mexican at the Max stop was the face I recognized, the one that said, "What's up, man?"

I was on my bike.

"Heeeep," which isn't really a word, but is what I said as I rode by him. I should have said. "Que?" or "Hola" or "Sup" or sompting.

I didn't want to talk to him, though, if you want the truth of it. Nor did I want to remember what had happened yesterday, although it was funny at the time, although I told the story to a few friends and made them laugh, although it is the fuel for this particular blog entry. See (not si, you silly gringo), I must write about it to work through it.

Here goes:

So I haven't done laundry in a few weeks. These things happen. I'm wearing a baseball/softball type of jacket you see people at the autoparts stores wearing. It was a gift from my brother and I wear it when I think it might rain. And it does often here, still. And, I ride my bike to work, or to the Max rather, and often get caught all up in the rain, as it were. As it was yesterday, when I met the Mexican at the Max stop.

It's five to five and I have more than a five o clock shadow, to tell the truth. It's been almost as long since I've shaved as since I've done laundry. Also, I have a backpack on that is not the newest in styles, but one that holds my shcool gear just fine. And I guess if I were a Mexican at the Max stop I might confuse my unshaven, untailored, bike riding, but otherwise helpful self as -- por supuesto! -- homeless. A helpful homeless.

I did help that senor. I told him which buttons to push to get his All Zone pass, which I shouldn't have had to there's an E(spanol/nglish) button. It was $1.95 por favor and he put that dinero in the machine, not me. He gracias'd me like a good hombre. I tired to de nada him, I did best I could. I was tired though, trieste, and he probably thought I woke up in the gutter or something because the next thing he did really had me smirking to myself on the Max ride to work. Like he's Porfirio Diaz he pulls out yet another dollar and tries to give it to me. No no no no no no, I say because it means the same thing in both E(spanol and nglish), before I take it and put right into the my pocket of mi pantalons.

So where I'm confused as I'm sure you are now making fun of me is: Is this a tip? Was I being paid for being helpful? Did he think I was a helpful homeless, a street kid, who needed food. Well, it's true. Es Verdad. All but the homeless part.

Adios, muchachos y muchachas,

Carson de nation

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