Down By The River of White

“Were you there when the tower fell? I was on the fifth story when I saw someone impossible, then lightning. Haven’t been talking right since.”

Derrick looked down at the dirty man in the three coats propped up on a green utility box. His scraggly furry face, bulbous nose and deep set eyes gave the appearance of being a cartoon character. On a clear day at a downtown intersection, right outside a drugstore, the man sat without a cup, pot or anything. He was actually making conversation.

“I’ve never been to New York.”

“No, not New York, I’ve been there though, nice town, nice town. Where was I? Where the hell was I? North of Jerusalem, west of Persepolis. It’s really famous actually, just can’t frame to say the name.”

“Having a brain fart? That’s okay, everybody does.”

“You sure this doesn’t ring any bells? Jews crying in the river, really well kept beards. eyes for eyes, eyes for gold, none of this rings any bells?”

Derrick didn’t hear bells ringing, he did hear a big clock in his head moving.

“Look I got to go but it’s been nice talking to you.”


“No, I’m Derrick.”

“But Vincent’s a good name right?”

“Sure, I got to go now. Vincent.”

“Ananki bless you.”

“You too buddy.”


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