Awaking from a restful eleven and a half hours of sleep on a Saturday morning, I was grief stricten to realize that I had slept through a Friday night of rampant popularity, the likes of which have previously been unseen in quite sometime.
Invitations to sportsbars and pizza pig outs aside, it was time to begin my day. Starting with a excavation of my work pants in search of Burger King coupons and assorted loose change.
By noon a flurry of text message exchanges set in place plans for a trip to meet and greet with rising rap phenom J.Cole. The supposed next big thing, a lightskinned gangly protege of current hip hop mega star Jay-Z. My main focus was retrieving a photograph with the young star. Bait for luring co-workers by my desk at work, flaunting various impressive photographs with celebrities. An illusion that would lead cubicle dwelling types with the impression that outside of the office I actually lead quite the exciting life. J.Cole would be the center piece of this collection.
Sadly, mother nature and fate would have other plans on this day. By mid afternoon our scavenger hunt of hotels and tour buses was cut premature. The only option now was to seek shelter beneath an awning outside of the venue where a small crowd of J.Cole devotees had arrived FOUR HOURS IN ADVANCE!
Things were beginning to look grim on our part, the gaggle of scrawny pre-pubescent twelve year old girls were never going to allow us close enough access for autographs and photos upon the stars arrival.
As the rain cleared and the sun shined it dawned upon me that todays generation of kids are not only better looking then the previous one (mine or close to it) they are also much cleaner. Their hair is groomed immaculantly, their sneakers are spotless and their clothes although cheap looking are quite expensive. They are excessorized to a T even in a economy where their parental overlords are possibly struggling to find work or making ends meet on meger wages. The possibility of dripping a sweat appears to have never been a threat to these kids and if it had I imagine it would have been such a life shattering revolation that their worlds would have unraveled, leaving them huddled in a corner somewhere in the fetile position deep throating their baby smooth thumbs.
From out of this glob of hair gel and freshly unboxed Air Jordan sneakers arose a scuzzy ball of battered flesh so ghastly, so threatening to the mainstream way of life, likely the only way of life these kids knew, that he immediatly caught my attention.
This hideous creature, stinking of trash and carrying around a makeshift pole fitted with a hook on the tip, approached me with a friendly grin full of tooth decay and gingivitis. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk over the weather before delving into more serious subject matter such as the JFK assassination and our shared hatred for George W. Bush. Or, the "bitch boy" as my new found friend would repeatedly refer to him.
"The names Paco!"
Paco would go on to share with me tales of adventure that he experienced as a prisoner for twenty-eight years in the OHIO prison system. Claiming that after an altercation with the warden at one prison he was sent to "the hole" for a year and a half where he feasted upon generous helpings of Jack Daniels. The hole as he described it was roughly five-by-five, dark, filthy and if you didn't catch your meals before they were slopped on the floor then you were pretty much fucked.
His crime was double-attempted-homicide.
Before prison Paco did several years in Vietnam where he lost a brother and uncle who also served in his unit. He himself left Vietnam after taking no less then six bullets in various parts of his body. His SSDI payments were apparently brought to a screeching hault a few years ago thanks to budget cuts by then President George W Bush.
At 3 am every morning Paco can be found trolling the treacherous alley ways and dumpsters behind downtown bars where he collects aluminum cans.
"This is my job, man. One night some dude left a pack of sixteen Miller Genuine Drafts on a table, I didn't hesitate to crank those fuckers down!"
By Pacos own estimates he is one of roughly 30,000 homeless citizens who have made the sunwashed streets of St. Petersburg home.
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