More Sighs Of The Times

I passed by in my ride a closed, old-fashioned movie theater near downtown. It had one of those tall marquees jutting out front with two sides at the bottom. On one side the letters were arranged to say: NOW PLAYING on the top line and below: CRAZY RCH WHIT PEEPLE. Seems they didn't have enough of the right letters.

Below the sign was a motley crew in the dying rays of late afternoon sun. A skinny, hospital-white guy was cradled in a grocery cart stuffed on the sides with pieces from a torn comforter, making himself a quasi-recliner of sorts, his place of luxury.

A large black woman sat splayed on the sidewalk with her back leaning against what would have been the bottom of the ticket booth. She had a genuine smile for everyone that passed. I thought she was either helplessly simple-minded or had the most hateless heart on the planet.

Two older black men in clothes unacquainted with washing stood arguing nose to nose in heavy sentiment. I couldn't catch their words, only their vehement gestures of life and death. Could be they just needed to argue.

A younger black guy in fading athletic build sat on the curb, feet defeated in the street, his head between his knees waiting to die. Don't think he'd read any grifters' editorials in the Wall Street Journal claiming the American dream is still alive.

A middle-aged Hispanic woman leaned dead-eyed against the building on the opposite side of the ticket booth, the sun slicing her body in two. For some reason her black clothing made me think of her as a 19th century noblewoman. She had that thousand yard stare from waging combat too long, death whispering in her ear, making her pay for the sin of another breath.

The whole scene was a sprawling mess in broad daylight for everyone to see. Triggered by guilt, I saw a woman of sunglasses, sex, and finery extort from her rolled down BMW window, "God is good!", then she was gone with the wind from her twilight time. Her plate read "KAITWIN". I think by "God" she meant herself.

I hid from that group as I passed. I didn't want them to know I was actually one of them and shirking my duties. I parked down the street to spy from my review mirror. I had to roll down the windows for air, then I felt the heat of the day rushing in they endured, a tax levied without recourse or relief.

After a while a small Indian man in a suit confronted the crew, chastising them in strict anger. Apparently they didn't meet his code of conduct. He pointed to the re-arranging of the letters in the marquee. Only the two arguing black men responded to him. I think they were happy for fresh meat in their feud.

The Indian was a businessman, most likely the property owner. He didn't want trash on his property. The respectability his American wealth had given him was as valuable as his cash. The marquee sarcasm had gotten under his skin. I found it ironic to see him going ballistic as I remembered the original name of the movie, "Crazy Rich Asians."

Finally he left in a huff, superiority intact. I was grateful his rampage didn't go any further but I feared there'd be a sequel for this movie with more dire consequences, starring the angry upright local business leader.

A young professional female in perfectly attuned casual attire walked her perfectly groomed labradoodle, stopping outside my open window, paying me no mind. Both had exited from a nearby office tower recently reconstructed to be high-rise condos. She listened to a podcast from a life coach guru saying one needs to be more proactive than reactive in one's workday and to eliminate early morning phone calls in order to set a positive energy flow for the day.

I wondered if she drove a car plated "KAITWIN".

The streets call out my name just as those sentenced to die are called out one by one by the executioner, fate already decided by the judgment of madmen. Like twisted children deformed in an unknowing mind, a sick play is conducted before our eyes written by the worst of us for the rest to perform, using a soundtrack from a time gone by.

Crawling scratching creatures wrestle to survive in crumbs of fading life, absorbing energy into an inert sponge of wasted rot, wallowing in the litter of discarded dreams, a planet spinning out of orbit in furious wail. Hell's mouth opens, and like grains from a salt shaker lives fall into it swallowed whole with fools on top insisting the shaking must continue at all costs.