palm greasing

I slipped a crisp five-er to my garbage man yesterday. I felt good about it.

I got to the house late and the truck was already down the street. A novice would have shrugged his shoulders and opted to endure the lawn bags sitting against the side of the house for another calendar week... but I'm no novice. I flagged them down and made a series of gestures as they cruised passed the house. Easily dismissed as idle gibberish hand waving by most passerbys; this was a complex interwoven cultural textile of hand signals passed down through generations of smooth cats that share my bloodline.

no words. just a head nod.

Five minutes later the truck eased gingerly down my street halting to a stop alongside a makeshift mailbox (a mailbox that sadly lacks a flag). In an instant, the remnants of a Saturday afternoon spent clipping a massive shrub back to its infancy were thrown into this hulking truck and... then it happened. ...yet another simoltaneous head-nod-hand-gesture. This time from the garbage man back to me. Its was subtle, silent even. Again, undetectable to most... but to the trained eye...ahhh... yes... to me... it whispered can you help a brotha out?

As they drove on, passing countless empty refuse containers,perhaps empty lives,or empty dreams; I stood proud... pointing to my silent comrade. Shouting without words... merely an outstretched index finger that said clearly and honestly...I got you covered.