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Yuck Foo, Buddy

Michael Battram

That morning on the street, I guess we sized
each other up almost immediately——
I recognized his pasty, needy look,
and he must have seen in me the wariness
and resignation of the easy mark.
He cut across the corner, caught me at
the crosswalk, sounding breathless but rehearsed,
said, “Hey, buddy, sir, you got a buck to spare,
some pocket change? Lately things’re tough,
I need a meal, a little change of luck.”
“Well,” I said, “you look more like you need
a drink,” and then I saw his hopes rise like
a barmaid’s smile. “You got it, man,” he grinned.
“But,” I went on, “you look like you need
that meal a little more. So, how about
we get some breakfast, then attend a meeting
where I go sometimes. That’s where your luck
might really start to change.” He coiled back like
a frightened snake. “Shit, I should’ve known!
You AA types think everyone’s a drunk.
I don’t need to quit, I only need
a little drink, a taste to get me through.”
“Well, you don’t have to quit,” I said, “you just
don’t drink today. I’m saying just this day,
it’s one day at a time.” “You’re saying no.”
“I’m saying yes to everything but booze,
my friend. I sure won’t help you kill yourself.”
“Yeah, one day at a time, my rosy ass.
I’ve heard it all before from pricks like you.
Keep walkin’, fool. Thass right, you heard me, Jack.”
My good deed done, I crossed the busy street,
still hearing his angry words against my back,
my reddening neck. “Cheap asshole, twelve-step fag!”
Well, maybe I’m an asshole, in spite of good
intentions——maybe I haven’t earned the right
to judge. But I don’t beg for money, or scream
hangover curses at strangers on the street.
Not lately, anyway. Not today, so far.

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