Again, it didn’t take too long for me to find writing material this morning. Fodder, to be more precise. My motto isn’t just cleaver wordplay; they’re words I live by.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. Be honest, enjoy life, and always continue to do what they say can’t be done.

Even at 8am on a Monday. Let’s set the mood…

Now, let’s set the scene: It’s my final day of Holiday. It’s fifty degrees outside, and I’m in slides, shorts, and a t-shirt…with a Holden Caulfield style, red hunting cap on my head. The flaps are down, of course. I haven’t been to the barber in two weeks so my beard is in distress.

I look like a crazy person. I mean, if the shoe fits, but, as always, I digress.

My morning ritual was moments away from touching my lips when I heard the strange voice. Yes, it was indeed a strange voice, because I’m damned good at identifying voices. I spent ten years in the trenches as a paranormal investigator who specialized in Electronic Voice Phenomenon. I will always forget your name, but I’ll never forget your face, voice, and speaking cadence. Voice actors can’t hide from me.

Normally, when I hear these voices, I brush it off as something potentially demonic or the ghost of someone from my past hell-bent on haunting me for whatever shenanigans I pulled on them. This one sounded more tangible, though, so I turned my head; slightly. Just slightly. Turning my head wholly was too much to ask of me at 8am on a Monday.

“Yyyyyyeeeeesssssssssss,” I responded.

“Mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble…”

Great, I thought. A tweaker or a recovering tweaker. I approached my gate all willy-nilly, casually skipping like a jolly child to complete the costume of whatever in the hell was parading toward this stranger. First impressions are everything, after all. I was merely welcoming him to my world.

The man, my height and age, but definitely a different style of facial-milage, stood at the gate holding onto the bars as though he’d spent a lot of time doing something similar. I could tell he didn’t know what to think, but he held those bars tightly. They have a tendency to grip things harder when they lie, just in case they need to push off or use whatever’s in their hand as a weapon. Those who’ve been incarcerated for long periods of time, I mean. Sometimes I take for granted that you folks can’t see inside my head. Be thankful.

“Can you let me in?” he asked casually, with purpose. “They said for me to come by here and pick up the trash around the dumpster over there.”

Backstory: I live in a shared, gated condo community. Ten units. Half of us own, and the other half rent. One of the tenants in a rental unit moved out the week of Christmas and threw her entire life in the dumpster. It was already overflowing before any of us could even throw garbage away.

Fast forward two weeks, with a poorly-timed holiday schedule, and our garbage hasn’t been dealt with at all. It’s a mess, and it could surely use a good tidying…

But that’s not what this fellow was here to do.

I know, because I’m a watcher.

I’ve seen this man before, because he wanders this neighborhood daily as though he’s lost. He’s not, he’s casing. Also, the non-profit that runs our HOA is built entirely of people belonging to the black community. This man was some sort of Latino who appeared to have crawled out of a dumpster himself.

“Who’s they?” I inquired, all Sherlock-ian.

“They,” he fired back instinctively while pointing somewhere, randomly. “The office.”

“Ah,” I chuckled before inhaling to release the bullshit-o-meter 9000. “We’re a half and half, dude. Half of us own, and half of us rent. There’s an HOA, of sorts. There is no office.”

I shifted closer to the bars.

“I sit in that window all day pecking away on a keyboard, so I see the comings and goings of the universe around here. If anything, I’m the office, and I never forget a face.”

He was immediately taken aback and his mind raced for the next fib. I turned to walk away because I’d clearly caused this actor to glitch. Then, as was planned, I turned to vomit today’s lesson all over this unfortunate gentleman. The “walk-away” was for theatrics.

“You know,” I barked while approaching him. “It really sucks to start your Monday off by being lied to by a complete stranger.”

Then, here it came. Again, as expected. I questioned his integrity, and a former or habitual resident of the corrections industry can’t stand it when you question their integrity, morals, or intent.

He commenced to ramble regarding how I was unsure of who in which I dealt, and the rest of the standard spiel you get when you corner a fuck-o in his own game.

“No, but I can open this gate and we can introduce ourselves…”

“No, no, no,” he fired back and backed away. We don’t need to go there.”

I truly didn’t blame him. I’m built like a gorilla dressed like the Catcher In The Rye. It was time to turn this little fellow away from the cliff.

“The last person in the world you thought you’d meet this morning was a psychopathic white bastard with a tendency to teach hard lessons and bail money.”

He backed up further, but his hand moved to one of his pockets. There wasn’t room enough for a gun on him, but he clearly had a knife or some other type of weapon. He’d reached that level of discomfort, so I backed away a bit.

“I can smell bullshit from a mile away, my good man, because I spent thirteen years locked up just like you.” Now, my experience of being in jail is one night in the drunk-tank, but I spent thirteen years in juvenile, adult, and federal corrections with a stint of every other position associated with such a lifestyle. It’s a long, excruciating story, but I’m sure we’ll go there at some point. A little here and there as needed. When necessary. Truly, it was a different life ago, if that makes sense. Some of you will understand.

At that, the man approached the fence to tell me about his decade in solitary confinement because his crimes were so heinous. Bingo. Can I tell ’em or can I tell ’em? Unimpressed, I approached the gate while pulling old faithful from my pocket, adding fire to her bowl, and inhaling deeply.

“See, they call me The Reverend,” I began my own spiel. “They call me The Reverend because I preach truths. This is my sermon of the morning for your ears absolutely free of charge.”

“Are you a Reverend of death,” he inquired with eyes glossed. Damn Hot Topic assistant managers are getting bold, aren’t they?

“Whatever the moment calls for, my good man, but I’m here to explain filters. You see, we’re all energy. Everything we say or do adds and subtracts from our energy, which is absorbed and interpreted through everyone’s filters. Now, our filters are created via our individual life experiences. If you’ve never been privy to a bunch of dishonest or untrustful people, then your filter is pretty thin. Fragile, even. Like rich, white people.”

He was so hooked.

“But an individual like you and me, we’ve seen some shit, therefore our filters are thick with one hell of a memory. If you don’t like how others perceive your truth, then it may be time to investigate your truth. Perhaps it isn’t truth at all, and you just happened to meet the one dude on the block who isn’t going to fall for your bullshit today.”

I clicked at him with the corner of my mouth, pulled from my pipe once more before the bowl extinguished, and winked. Clearly mind-blown, he nodded in compliance and mumbled down the road in search of his next lesson.

I sighed with my head hung low and headed back toward my porch swing. This is why we can’t have nice things. That bastard shook my morning routine, and there’s no way to get that back. I’m not sure what I was going to write for you fine folk this morning before meeting Random Tweaker # 1, but we have to take what we’re dealt sometimes.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. The new year is upon us, and the cockroaches want to sift through our holiday trash to see what Santa brought us. Most of it still has an Amazon label attached to it with our personal information. Free pieces to our puzzles.

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