Walking back to my hotel I’m drawn to the hypnotic beat of a street drummer tattooing a plastic bucket. He is not particularly good, just simple rhythms. A panhandler, his hat laying face up, his clothes street dirty. I toss a five into his hat.
I don’t know why I am compelled to this sort of generosity, probably a hedge against my bad karma for all the evil I’ve done to family, friends and loved ones over the years. My spontaneous act of generosity a hollow attempt to add balance to the coming judgement.
Looking up, I am drawn to the shimmering light from christmas lights that are strung in the trees that guard the intersection. I’m struck by the simple beauty of the twinkle through the night haze. The yellow light shining off the night dampened street brings a sadness that overwhelms me for a brief moment.
As I glance up I see the hotel ahead through my drunken post dinner haze and realize that my bed and a half bottle of Russian vodka awaits in my room.
Shuffling along, my beacon is the hotel marquee, drumming fingers gnaw at my subconscious setting a pace for my steps, guiding me to that place where I forget.
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013, written entirely on my iPhone.