Bill's Story

2004-03-24 - 8:46 a.m.

I wanted to write an entry last night, but I was tired. I'm even more tired now, because the cats woke me up (approximately) ten trillion times last night. Fred, the orange-coloured cat, was the worst last night. He wanted affection. And he wanted to nibble. On anything that wasn't covered by the blanket. Now, I love affection, but there's a time when the constant nuzzling, milk-treading, purring in my ear, chewing on my beard, and trying to burrow into my armpit has got to stop and The Magus has to sleep. Fred did not recognize that time.

Class was good. We had a guest speaker, and she had a lot of information. I also had a chance to chat with one of the classmates about our teacher, and we both agreed that we had no idea what to expect for a final mark...we're both good note takers, but our teacher's style seems to be to avoid giving any actual information during his lectures.

And, like always, I've come out of that class feeling like freelance editing is possible. Apparently, there's a billion people who want something edited out there...most freelancers find they have to turn away clients. And every time I think about getting to read for a living, I feel giddy.

On the way home from class, I ran into an old acquaintance.

When I lived with Pookie and walked to work, I'd sometimes pass a homeless guy in front of one of the corner stores. Over the course of a year or so, we'd developed a sort of relationship where we'd nod and smile, and then later, we'd exchange small-talk. He disappeared shortly before I moved (and because I don't walk there anymore, I had no idea whether he'd returned or not), and I sometimes thought about him and hoped he was okay.

Well, walking home, I saw him again. He's a small man, 47 (I found this out last night), but he looks like he's in his 30s, and he's always clear-eyed and friendly (which is why we developed that sort of friendship). He recognized me, and waved, and I waved back and stopped to chat with him. I asked him what had happened, and why he wasn't at the old place. And he told me a story.

I guess one afternoon at his old place, a couple of cops came by and started harrassing him. They asked his name (which is "Bill"), he told them, and they accused him of lying. They wanted to know if he had a criminal record, and he said he didn't. They didn't believe that a man could live on the streets in his late 40s and not have a record...Bill told me it was a lot of work, but he indeed had a clean record. The police stepped up their harrassment, and said that he was obstructing justice. They cuffed him and walked him twenty blocks to the station, where they printed him, found that he was telling the truth, and then they....kept him in prison. They didn't let him call his lawyer until 7:30 at night. When he went to court the next morning, the judge threw the trial out.

After Bill told his story, I gave him the fifty cents I had, and wished him luck after telling him that I walk by there every Tuesday night. Hopefully I'll see him again. I'm kind of curious about him, his background, and stuff. Plus, I had made him a character in my November novel, so maybe knowing him a little better will help give that novel some depth. (You know what else would give that novel some depth? My actually working on it. Sigh.)

I think I have some complex feelings about law enforcement and the culture that we, and police officers, live in, but I wanted to mainly get Bill's story down before I get into how I feel about it. I'm not surprised, really, just kind of disappointed.

Cheers,

The Magus

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