It is raining in our fair city today.
Many people find the rain a put-off, others simply a nuisance, but some find rainy days to be desperate times indeed.
Take, for example, this older man I saw while clickity-clacking home on the streetcar. . .nice and dry. . .feeling no need to sympathise with those stuck out in the weather. The man's most striking feature? Flowing hair like Farah Fawcett. For a man of his age, it was immaculate!
But his eyes had a wild look in them.
Like an animal in a sinking cage.
Or those unfortunate Irish folks in the film "Titanic" that are trapped in steerage.
Not nearly as playful and coquettish as Ms. Fawcett.
I saw him desperately searching in his jacket--but what for?!
His hands were moving so rapidly around his jacket he looked a bit like those old film reels of Harry Houdini doing the straight jacket escape. Only this spectacle much less impressive, as his hands were clearly unbound, and he wasn't hanging inverted in a pool of water. No, he was just standing in the rain.
A clear plastic bag was ripped from the depths of a pocket, given one quick flick, as you would a garbage bag before placing it in the bin, and then. . .well. . .pulled over his head, fading flaxen locks and all! Like netting a fish--just that quick.
The site of a wilting Farah Fawcett drag queen, practically suffocating under his own power, was like nothing I'd seen before.
I don't condone such behaviour; but I understand it.
With hair like that, the rain could fuck it around so bad that there would be no point in living.
Or, at the very least, killing enough brain cells to make it hard to recall such a traumatic event.
. . .I left him, gaping for air from behind his plastic tomb, and thought, "Buddy, your hair is still going to get fucked up."
The static charge in his hair would be his reward for such a stupid innovation in rainwear.
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