Incessant Bubbles
by Odin Roark

I was well aware of the Hollywood bubble,
The Washington bubble,
The 1% bubble,
But my own vacuum couldn’t be that permeable…
Could it?

After all,
I might have chosen insulation,
Just had many others.
My boss,
Girlfriend,
Even her cat.

Did that make us all unrealistic,
Or merely protective,
Responsible,
Sensible?

Who wants to be vulnerable?
Who yearns to be bilked,
Milked,
Used?

Oh, I had a thesaurus of justifications.
But…

Here I was, sitting on the bus bench, eating my Big Mac… waiting.
Not for the bus, but the next panhandler.
Some kind of addiction, eh?
Of course I had the right to judge.
I worked hard.
Kept my job.
Never bummed around.
Avoided partying.
Never got into drugs,
Loose women,
Spending sprees.

No,
I was a good guy.
Minding my business in my well constructed bubble.

So,
Why did today start the doubts?
I was just sitting there, when, oh, Jesus.
Here comes that fucking mongrel again.
What’s with this mangy dog.
Why me?

Give me a panhandler to reject, any day.
This damn mutt was a deal breaker.
I was fixed in my ways.
And this little shit was always…

“Damn!
What do you want?”
Mr. Grunge sat back on his haunches. Just sat there.
I fingered what was left of the burger.
He tilted his head.
“Yeah… So what? Man’s gotta eat.”
I took another bite.
Mr. Grunge didn’t move. An ever so quiet sound slipped through his panting now.
Hell, he knew me. Seen me enough times on this bench. Knew I wanted to be one way, but always found myself being another when he turned up.
So gentle, his lean forward. A sniff first. (Even he knew it was always a good idea to sniff a McDonald’s first) His eyes looked up at me, then gently took the piece I’d torn off for him.
“So…you got what you wanted. Beat it.”

See…this is what I mean. He didn’t run off like all the other times. He laid down at my feet, his muzzle resting on my shoe. “You’re fucking up my thing. You know that, don’t you? Panhandler is going to avoid me now, thinking you’re some kind of rabid monster that will bite his ass if he comes near.”

Then, it happened.

Down the sidewalk strolled his guy. You know the look. Made the mutt look freshly shampooed.
I got into my “Go fuck yourself” mood. Readying up my usual protective…
But, this guy just sat down on the bench. Didn’t look at me. His eyes looked down at the dog.
And I’ll be damned if he didn’t reach into his pocket, pull out an old dried up half-bagel—yeah dumpster or waste basket cuisine—broke off half for Mr. Grunge, sighed and munched on the other half. “Nice day,” he says.

So now there’s three of us munching away. F*** it…I give what’s left of the burger to the guy, and I’m wondering if I’ve picked the wrong sphere for myself. There’s got to be one that’s right for me, right?
Oh, c’mon. Don’t get all superior on me now. We’ve all got our bubbles. How you gonna survive without one. Fear’s natural. I just need to pick my dreaded whatever better. You know, the kind of threat that’s really worth being afraid of. Like maybe never seeing the mutt again. Never witnessing a panhandler that’s handing out. You know?

I guess I should go with the flow, ‘cause it never gets easy.