Dear Drunk Guy on the 22 Clark Bus,

When you walked on the bus last night, I knew that something was different about you. First of all, you ran down the bus aisle all the way to the back, and nearly fell on me. You looked seemingly harmless; a moderately dressed African American man with a unique aura surrounding you. It was only as you came closer that I discovered the unique aura smelled a lot like cheap scotch.

I had once heard that in the African American community, men even if they have never met, typically acknowledge each other when their paths cross. It's usually as simple as a head nod, sometimes accompanied by a " What's up?" But that's much too simple for you. You chose to lean slightly to the left, with a focusing one-eyed glare and pointed at the other African American man sitting near us. Classic.

You proceeded to speak loudly on the bus and told all without Ipods in their ears about how "You'd be a rich man if you didn't smoke and drink" as you got a can of Milwaukee's Best from the plastic bag convenience store bag you're carrying and cracked it open. A rich man indeed. You told us of the condo you'd own, the cars you'd drive, and the women you'd fornicate with. My favorite was a particularly charming tale about how you blew through $12,000 in a weekend. You were "living the good life" in a fancy hotel. One where you could get carry out anything: carry out pizza; carry out liquor; carry out women. Ah, those were the days.

As I approached my bus stop, I was almost sad that I wouldn't get to hear you lament about how they don't' make furniture as sturdy as they used to, and how when you touch a car nowadays it dents. But you wouldn't let me leave without something to remember you. How wonderful it was that when I got up and made my way towards the door, you shouted out "Cracka!!! Cracka!!" which I can only take as your endearing way of calling me 'Cracker.' I'll treasure the last drunken phrase you uttered to me until (if fate should have it) we meet again.

Sincerely Yours,
Philthy (aka Cracka)