Sheep's Clothing

“Sheeps Clothing”

There’s a man named Daniel who lives in a small patch of woods about forty yards from my house. Daniel is completely crazy and often screams at trees, and squirrels, and the ground, and anything else he can to demonstrate his craziness. Many times I hear him screaming, “Wake up Wake the fuck up, god dammit ”. I imagine he’s changing from one personality to another during these occasions. He seems to have many personalities, but he’s good about leaving the violent and nasty ones at home when he goes about his daily begging.
Daniel does his begging in a very workman like way. He emerges on the block early with the college students and bus commuters and perches himself on various stoops and benches around the neighborhood. He never discriminates to whom he begs from. All of societies categories are equally solicited. His only variance from his plea for cigarettes and spare change is this; every man is referred to as brother, and every woman as beautiful. Everyone gets a god-bless-you whether they have contributed or not.

I was waiting on a bus one day, when he sauntered over and plopped down on the bench next to me and took his shoes off. They were old worn leather hiking boots with the classic bum holes in the toes. His feet were rugged. They looked like how Fred Flintstone’s feet would have actually looked if he drove his car in that famous Fred Flintstone kind of way. They were black and mangled with blisters and sores and gross amber colored toe nails. He rubbed them a while without looking up, then focused his attention on a tall can of St. Ides malt liquor wrapped in a crusty paper bag. He cracked the top open and took a long drink with his eyes closed. He burped and waved his hand in front of his face like a karate expert, only drunker. He peeked out of one eye lid and turned to look at me.
“Hey brother,” he said with his coarse, raspy voice. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette on ya, would ya?”
“I don’t smoke, Daniel.”
He never registers the fact I call him by name.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare change, would ya brother?”
“Just bus money, Daniel.”
“God bless ya brother.”
He lifted his can to his mouth but stopped short and turned to me again.
“Say brother, what’s your name?”
“Bryan”
“Bryan, you ever been around sheeps before?”
“Sheeps?”
“Yeah. White fluffy things. They’re bigger than dogs. You know godammit, sheeps ”
“Okay, sheeps. Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em.”
“But have you been around them? Could you touch ‘em?”
“No, I guess not.”
“I hate those fuckers They made me all fucked up like this,” he knocked on his head to demonstrate. A random college guy walked past.
“Hey brother, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra cigarette on you, would ya brother? You wouldn’t have a spare change?”
The college guy never turned to look, but patted his pockets as a sign that he was broke too.
“Damn sheeps kicked me right in the head once,” he continued. “I was in a hospital for nine months, knocked out the whole time.” He took care of the remaining beer with another big swig. He hit up a man and a woman, professors maybe, who kept talking and ignored him altogether. He rubbed his feet again and tilted his head back. It looked like he might fall asleep, but I was intrigued.
“How’d it happen?” I asked.
“Huh? Hey brother, you wouldn’t...”
“The sheeps,” I said impatiently. “How’d a sheeps kick you in the head?”
“Aw shit,” he grumbled. “I was at a buddy of mine’s house, way the fuck out there in the country. There was a bunch of us there and we were sittin’ around a fire drinking and smoking and shit,” he did the motions of drinking and smoking as he listed them off. A guy on a bike rolled by and Daniel asked him for a cigarette or a spare change. The guy told him not today and called him ‘buddy’ as he rolled away. Daniel focused on his aching feet again. He seemed to forget about the story.
“And?” I tried jogging his feeble memory.
“Hey brother,” he said to me, prepared to ask me the same question again.
“The sheeps. You were smoking and drinking around the fire and...?”
“Hey man. You’re funny. You remember that story?”
“No I don’t remember. How’s it go again?”
“We were out in the country, man.”
“I know, and you were sitting around the fire.”
“Yeah man. And this big muthafucker comes outta no where with these big fuckin’ dogs. Don’t nobody know this muthafucker and he just sits down and grabs a beer. His dogs go runnin’ off somewhere and were all like ‘Who the fuck are you man?’ This big muthafucker stands up and says he’s the devil. We all start laughin’ at this crazy fucker and he starts laughin’ too, when all of a sudden we hear his dogs barkin’. He stopped laughin’ and he looked around. I sat there wonderin’ what the hell was goin’ on when I looked over and all these sheeps came runnin’ right at us. I was just startin’ to think about gettin’ up when a sheeps tried to jump over where I was sittin’. Fucker didn’t make it and kicked me square in the head,” he pulled back some of his long, matted hair to show me the nasty scar the sheeps made.
It appeared he had more to tell, when a very old man pushed a rusty shopping cart past us, filled with aluminum cans.
“Hey brother, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette or a spare change, would ya brother?”
The old man murmured something under his breath and trudged along. Daniel went for another drink, but shook it to show me it was empty. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and some loose change. He held it in his hand and closed his eyes as if he were weighing the money. He suddenly popped his eyes open and snatched his empty beer can. The old man with the cart had made it to the crosswalk and Daniel went running after him, hollering at him as he approached.
“Here ya go brother I gotta can for ya.”
The old man turned to identify the commotion running his way and began to panic as he saw Daniel running at him. He tried to make a break across the street but he moved slower than even he expected and was smashed by a speeding, beat-up Buick Century. His frail body blasted into the windshield, then went flying off as the driver slammed on the brakes. The cans spewed all over the intersection and the shopping cart became mangled under the Buick. The horrified driver jumped out of the car and raced over to the crumpled body in the street. He and Daniel leaned over the dead man silently, and then looked at each other. Daniel tossed his empty can among the others in the street and asked the driver if he had a cigarette or a spare change. The stunned driver made no acknowledgment to him so Daniel stumbled back to the bench I was still sitting in. He picked up his old hiking boots and began to slowly walk off.
“God bless ya, brother,” he said to me as he walked away barefoot.