Monday, July 16, 2007

Sir Boots of Bleecker St.

It was a gorgeous summer night in the West Village. The air was filled with the girlish giggles of black transsexuals and what appeared to be the muffled grunting of a young rent boy and his first john. As I skipped over overflowing garbage cans and used condoms I thought merrily how happy I was to live in this glorious city. It was then that I encountered a shining star of a man that I would come to know as Boots. Boots was a hearty hobo with a grin as wide as the Nile and a smell that could kill a kitten. He knew me from the time I fell down a sewer pipe near the local bodega, Boots’ personal Xanadu. I was glad to see him, as he had come to be my personal Jeeves, always ready to give directions or medical advice. I hailed him

“Boots! My good man! How goes it sir? It’s a lovely night for a stroll is it not?”

He responded in the affirmative and gave me a handshake that was as crusty as an old prospector. He asked to walk with me and I obliged, happy to share a few tales with this crab apple cheeked miscreant. We walked by all the uniquely village landmarks; the Tasti D-Light, the Barnes and Noble, and the local fetish emporium. It was then that we encountered trouble. A local group of trangendered rapscallions accosted Boots and I, demanding I account for the sartorial mishap that was my footwear.

“Look at this bitch ass breeder, this nigga buys his shoes at the Home Depot!” The newly minted male quipped.

I was appalled, not at the comment itself, because I had actually stolen these shoes from a Polish immigrant, but because he seemed to think I was ripe for parody. Boots himself was taken aback, less so at the egregious effrontery that was taking place and more because he was suffering from the DTs and was stumbling back and forth like a crippled Irishman. I addressed my sex switched interloper with candor.

“Stay back” I demanded. “Or I shall blow my rape whistle without discretion”

This seemed to startle the mob, and sensing victory I began to make my way through this impromptu imbroglio. It was then that I was struck in the back of the head with what appeared to be a spray painted Manolo Blahnik. I cried out in pain as my rape whistle was torn from my neck and my hair was tussled with vigor. I knew that I merely had seconds to live. And yet, my life was not to end on this excrement smeared side street, as at this very moment Boots barreled through the crowd of cross dressers and snapped the leaders pink umbrella into 2 pieces. The leaders perfectly put together ensemble was decimated by this impulsive act of impudence. He stared at Boots for a second, and saw in his eyes the same thing I saw. The dull incomprehension of a man who could not be reasoned with, who stood for his street, when he wasn’t sleeping in its gutter. The leader harrumphed, but led his group back down towards the pier where they would no doubt dream of bygone days and do crystal meth until their brains leaked out of their ears.

I turned to Boots and showered him with praise. He was a true patriot, a statesman, and a hero to the helpless. He looked at me with a gleam in his eye, and a blush on his cheek, and asked if he could borrow 5 dollars. I told him I would give him something better. I took out a piece of paper. “Boots” I said, “what I’m gonna write on this paper is worth a whole lot more than 5 measly dollars.” I shook his hand and skipped down the streets towards my abode as I heard Boots yell out as he read my note. “You are special??!!!!” he bellowed.

Indeed he be.

5 Comments:

Blogger jdkealy said...

BRAVO SIR!!!!

2:51 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

had to read it again and say BRAVO SIR!!!

1:32 PM  
Blogger Mister Fedward Hyde said...

very very well written.

please write more. the style of somewhat reminiscient of www.leveragedsellout.com

well done, comrade

8:57 AM  
Anonymous Lady Chatterly said...

I must say this is by far your best work yet...you are a wordsmith kid, i do declare...

12:40 PM  
Blogger Rob said...

Sunshine and butterflies...

4:41 PM  

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