Background
The true story of how I was adopted by an unknown stranger I begged money from in a Wal-Mart parking lot.
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My primary target laid in a tight, tucked, semi-fetal position sawing logs when I spotted him under the Jefferson Street Bridge. His grizzled, stubble-covered left cheek rested on his folded, wrinkled, hands that served as his pillow.
Near him was his tattered, dirty, pack that contained all his worldly possessions. I could see the bottom of the bag was caked in dry mud. Who knows what else infested the tote. I decided to rifle through his property on the off-chance I might locate what I sought. I had no way of knowing whether he carried any cutlery, but I had to begin searching for a blade somewhere.
My thought at the time was, "You might as well have a little peek at what's inside that bag. There ain't no telling what goodies you may find in there."
Quietly, so as not to rouse him from his slumber, I advanced a few steps forward. I figured there was no need for confrontation. I knelt down beside the pack and softly told the decrepit galoot to, "Stay in Dreamland. I'll be gone in a flash."
I inhaled a deep breath and double-checked to ensure the homeless wonder wasn't playing possum. He didn't awaken. Quickly, I unzipped the bag. I reached into the pack. The first item I discovered was a half-smoked stogie. It's end had been disgustingly chewed off.
"Gross!" I muttered to myself barely audible enough to be heard.
With a scrunched up expression on my youthful face, I wiped my fingers on the seat of my jeans. Served me right, I suppose. Next, I removed the torn remnants of a filthy tee shirt. There were two small, round, blue pills. Your guess is as good as mine as to what they were. I also found a dirty, used, hypodermic syringe. All I would have needed to do was accidentally poke myself with that needle.
I grabbed the pack with both hands, turned it upside down, and shook out the rest of its containments. I found nothing useful. There was a pair of crusty underwear that led the charge of the bag's cargo as it fell to the ground.
Like the good, little lad I always am, I picked the wares up off the ground and stuffed them back inside the elderly transient's bag. The underwear I left where they fell. Finished with that chore, I re-zipped the bag.
Spotting a small pouch on the front of the bag, I unzipped it. I gave Sleeping Beauty another peek and removed a red bandana from the pouch. I felt something hard inside the handkerchief, so I quickly unfolded the cloth and found bonanza gold.
I shoved the rolled up head covering back into the pouch as the ancient hobo stirred. He noticed my presence and sprung up into a seated position in an exasperated manner. I didn't dawdle around to hear what obscene profanities he exclaimed.
As he grabbed his pack, I made tracks as fast as I could lay them down away from there. All the time, I crammed my new prized possession deep into the right front pocket of my denims. Jesse Owens in the 1936 Olympics had nothing on the smoke I left in my wake.
I'll confess, I had a bit of an impediment back then. I was slightly klepto. If something wasn't nailed down, and I even remotely thought I needed whatever the item was, it belonged to me. I considered my actions to be the survival of the fittest. A couple strategically placed sessions, under the supervision of Dusty West's patented tail feather plucker, curbed me of that appetite prudently! That is how I absconded with the switchblade knife I told you about in Chapter One of my autobiography.
If I had only listened to my Mother when she warned me, "Never run with a sharp object in your pocket."
Did I listen to her sage words of wisdom? What do you think?
"The snakes crawl at night. When the cat's away the mice will play." Somewhere along the line of my short lifespan I heard that impressionable comment. I knew the remark was true, even if the slippery reptiles wore Davidson County blue uniforms, carried badges, wielded nightsticks, and were armed with pistols.
Dusk slowly settled in as I rounded the corner of Division Street and 2nd Avenue South. Six blocks, that's all the further I travelled after I pilfered the switchblade knife from the vagrant. Never once did I look back over my shoulder to see if I was being followed. Finally, I slowed my pace down to a turtle's crawl.
In a sudden breeze, a greasy Taco Bell wrapper wafted down the sidewalk near my left sneaker. Seeing the parchment reminded me I was hungry. This was my distraction at the intersection of Second Avenue South and Demonbreun Street when a mental "DANGER!" sign flashed through my mind.
So much for attending to my own affairs. Perhaps that was why I did not initially see the reason for the sword of Damocles, or its clear and imminent threat. (I know, at 12 years old, I would not have used that idiom, however, I always wanted to manipulate that expression into my writing, so now I have.)
About half a block away from where I walked stood a tall, dark-haired, police officer. He was probably about six feet tall and tipped the scales at a healthy 220 pounds. In his hand was his walkie-talkie. He stared straight at me and I heard him say, "Subject is 10 - 20 between the Prudential Life Building and the Masterson Towers."
He couldn't be speaking about me, could he?
Instantly, I halted my horses and listened carefully to what he said.
"You, the blond munchkin in the red and white horizontally-striped tee shirt. Come over here. NOW! We've been looking for you." He pointed a finger at me and loudly instructed me to comply with his orders.
Several passersby heard his remarks. They stared at me with questioning countenances and wondered what crime I committed? Hermitage Hall certainly wasted no time contacting the law about my unauthorized departure of the facility. However, I wasn't returning there easily.
Quickly, I surveyed my surroundings. All I observed were the high-rise office buildings and businesses that lined both sides of the street I was corralled in. I stepped towards the officer and heard him say, "Delinquent is 10-76 to my position."
I wasn't sure what he called in on his transmitter, but I noticed what I thought might be an escape route. A small break between two firms caught my attention. Fly-by-night operations or not, Thompson's Taxidermy and Caldwell Banking never looked better to me.
I knew nothing about either enterprise. All I wanted was out of this predicament surrounding me. I bolted for the daylight I discovered between the two establishments. Where was Greyhound when I desperately needed the vaunted carrier to whisk me out of harm's way?
Author Notes
This was how I absconded with the switchblade knife I told you about in Chapter One of my autobiography.
Gurkha Service No. 1Kukri, by gurkakukri, selected to complement this chapter of my autobiography.
So, thanks gurkakukri, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this chapter of my autobiography.
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