Hey, whinos, leave the bands alone

My best friends’ band was in town last night and while there were numerous unique things to write about it — how good the show was in general, how it was neat seeing my friends playing at one of the best rock clubs in my new town, the excitement of having an all-access pass and actually knowing the guys in the headlining band — I’ll instead concentrate on the two moments awkward moments I remember being thoroughly annoyed.

As Chris (the aforementioned best friend) and I were walking down the street together after shoveling Italian Night Clubs from Jimmy John’s down our throats trying to catch up on what’s happened in our lives since we last saw each other two-and-a-half months ago, a bum approached us and began hassling Chris about what kind of music he played (the man had deduced that Chris was in a band by his interesting choice of clothing, I assume).

He told Chris if he gave him a buck he’d write a hit song for him.

This man wouldn’t let it die. He walked with us for almost an entire block before I literally had to grab Chris by the shoulder and we ducked into a thrift store to avoid me having to tell the guy to leave us the fuck alone. Had I not done so the guy would have seriously followed us all the way into the club three blocks up.

THEN, less than twenty minutes later, ANOTHER bum holding a stack of some rag of a monthly newspaper approached Pat (another guy in the band) and I and kept asking me to give him a buck for one of the papers.

I kept telling him I didn’t need one, tried to ignore him, but the persistent fucker wouldn’t budge. He just stood there kept begging me, asking me questions about myself and If I was a Bears fan while I was trying to have a conversation with Pat.

I wanted to say this:

Leave me alone MOTHERFUCKER! I’ve got a friend in town I only get to see once every three months these days and I’m trying to catch up with him, seeing how life’s treating him and whatnot, and you’re there hassling us to give you a buck for a paper that I can pick up for FREE at any bar on this fucking street! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

But instead I simply explained to him that I knew I could find stacks of that same paper for free at any bar on this street and that it made no sense for me give him a dollar for a one.

“You’re an honest man, I trust you man, I trust you,” he kept saying over and over after handing me one of the papers, patting me on my shoulder and attempting to give me a high five with his cold, calloused hands.

After he finally left I looked down at the paper I noticed he’d taken a Sharpie and blacked out the part of the masthead that said the paper was free.

“Ha, he must’ve gone through that whole stack and blacked that out so nobody’d notice it was free,” I say to Pat laughing, somewhat endeared by the man’s acumen.

“Shit, if I had noticed that I’d have just given him a buck.”

It occurred to me then that if a person’s only experience in Chicago were to be walking around Wrigelyville on a random Fall afternoon (which for many people is their only experience in Chicago) they’d think this town had the most antagonizing vagrants in the world.