Anton stood drinking his wine, hulking over this wizened, gutter gnome of a hobo, “Bitches spend too much money, right—they are all whores and were sent here to keep us chained to The Man, right!?”

“Amen, my friend,” agrees the hobo.

“Motherfucker,” says Anton, “so long as your are inclined to blow smoke up my ass, I will let you. But I think you are still hiding what you are about.”

A shrug of the emaciated shoulders concede detection.

“That’s right, motherfucker, you can’t hide from me. I think you could learn something from all these Southeast Portland skanks I’ve fucked—well, some of them, anyway. Many of these whores—and what woman is not a whore—put on airs. But I love me a bitch that says, ‘Hey, Sexxy A, lick my nasty pussy, lick this nasty slit right here.’ You see, that bitch is not hiding behind perfume or a bath—she’s real.”

The old runt winces in disgust.

“Motherfucker, when you laugh you signal that I am telling the truth. But how can I trust a motherfucker that disagrees and won’t say so? Say it. You think I’m a lowdown soul, don’t you?”

“Alternatively elevated,” side steps the gutter gnome.

The wine bottle is drained and tossed in the grass to recline under the porch light among weeping daffodils and budding purple flowers of alien aspect.

“Motherfucker, you owe me. Walk with me to the 7-11 and buy my drink. Unless you got some place to be?”

“I’m good for two hours, then have to go.”

“Shit, man, you don’t even work. I got to get up for work in the morning and I’m burnin’ the candle of my life and here you are, afraid to even light that wick.”

“Yes” admits the alienist as they walk on down the dark lane.

“Thanks for coming. You a fo’ real dude, got you with me while I patrol my hood!”

The narrowing shoulders shrug in non-committal inflection.

The hulking sending and the wizened little alienist cross the street at a cross walk, the Portland motorists politely waiting in both opposing lanes. The sending is not content with this civility, bristling at the stayed insincerity, and places open hands of command at the drivers, informing them that he owns the road and they have no choice but to obey.

I know now that my big friend is looking to pick a fight with someone. I dastardly determine that I will abandon him at the first demonstration of negro vitality.

…

The odd couple achieve the 7-11 parking lot as two black men, who seem to be directly from Africa, unload the 7-11 18-wheeler with dollies, wheeling down and back up the ramp.

The hobo says, “I could only do that dolly work for two years before my back blew. Those guys have my respect.”

Anton raises his voice towards the two toiling souls and says, “You drivers ain’t shit!”

I walked ahead of him and entered the 7-11, going to the beer cooler where I selected a 20 ounce Bud Light.

He appears next to me as a young athletic fellow reaches between us and excuses himself as he grabs a White Claw. Anton responds, ‘Motherfucker, that was my White Claw!”

The man chuckles uncomfortably and goes to the check out as Anton says, “Look at his thievin’ ass go!”

“Here, Mister James, buy me that $4.99 bottle of wine.”

“Sure,” I nod and head up front past a worn looking white woman of perhaps 40.

Anton looks at her and says, “I bet that bitch was hot thirty years ago.”

I cringe inside and get in line, my hulking friend standing behind me, the woman he picked on hovering away from us.

Anton starts pointing at the hand of the man in front of us, a left hand holding a smart phone as the man makes his purchase with his right hand, “Look at his finger, watch, watch that finger.”

I note four fingers and a thumb and shrug.

“Look, look at his finger!”

I shrug.

The man is on his way and we are up. As I get out two $5s to pay for our drinks Anton looks in my wallet and sees another $5 and points at the meatballs on a stick and says to the man behind the counter, “I’ll have an order of meatballs too.”

I pay and we leave, me glancing apologetically at the worn woman behind us. As we enter the outer night Anton chides, “What kind of man are you to pity that bitch? Just a dick sucking bitch is all.”

I shrugged in agreement as the big man spied one driver coming down the ramp with a load and could not resist prying into the hours and pay rate of his rival big negro. He seemed obviously to be picking a fight, although I knew that what he was really doing was pretending to pick a fight so that he could make a meaningful friend. Even so, I never stick around for Big Negro fights, anymore than the first mammal wanted to be underfoot when T-Rex and Triceratops were doing battle. My presence would make things worse as he tried to impress me with the proper trash talking of the real man of the street.

On into the night I walked without a backward glance, not forgetting that I had pledged the remaining portion of those two hours to the porch light.

There I waited when he emerged from the deeper dark and declared, “Motherfucker you ditched me!”

“Yep.”

The wine bottle top is screwed off with the mouth and spat on the porch, “Motherfucker, you are yellow.”

“Yep.”

“Your yellow ass missed it when I dipped into the tattoo shop and asked for a tattoo, and that motherfucker, that painted poser who does nothing but decorate, didn’t like me. He didn’t want my business.”

“You didn’t really want a tattoo. You were picking a fight.”

“And where were you, motherfucker, you yellow dog.”

“Here.”

“Yeah, you’re here, been here for me—but you’re still yellow.”

Shrug of guilt.

Some personal doubts about his patrimony are now discussed by Anton, finishing with, “I know, I’m pretty fucked up.”

“At least you know that the world hates you, bro.”

“It’s hates you too, Brother.”

“This we know.”

“Thanks for hangin’ out, James. Glad to be your friend—you’re a ramblin’ man and it makes me half jealous. Good night.”

Away from the porch light I went, from he who was counter sent.