The Manhattan Project

An eyeless homeless man saddled beside me outside the Staten Island bodega.

"You got any spare change?" he wanted to know.

I digged through my pockets, fingering strands of lint and wrinkled rolling papers. Finally I shook my head in a stern 'no.'

The eyeless homeless man wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. "You like football?" he asked.

"Um, not really." I shrugged my shoulders with an aloof gesture of "oh well."

He wasn't buying what I was selling. "You like basketball?"

"I don't really like sports." The words fell out of my mouth with an emasculating thud. I couldn't shove them back inside.

"You like suckin' that cock, don't you?" he prodded.

I didn't know what to say. I stood there panic-stricken for a moment. I really needed to purchase some Chinese food.

"Can I buy you a Coke?" I proposed.

The eyeless homeless man paused. Clearly, he was thinking it over.

"Yeah, get me a 7-Up."

I went inside the Staten Island bodega, ordering a Styrofoam box of MSG-encrusted Chinese food. The problem? No 7-Ups.

At the crucial moment of indecisiveness, I decided to purchase a Sprite, instead. I mean, lemon-lime scented, right? It works on some level.

"They didn't have 7-Up, so I bought you a Sprite," I told him outside. I presented him with the green can like it was a prized possession.

The eyeless homeless man looked at me like I spat in his face. "I'm not drinkin' that shit," he said.