Choose Your Own Moral

Ami Weghorst

Staff Writer

Let me tell you a story about this thing that happened to me today. I was going to Chucky's. And I was going there to by cigarettes, 'cause what else do I do with my empty time? So I go to Chucky's and I buy my cigarettes. I get Marlboro 100's - you know, more nicotine for my money, like the cheap mother fucker I am. I buy my cigarettes and I'm leaving the store and I see this tall, skinny black guy. I kind of assume he's homeless, just 'cause of the way he looks and 'cause that's the kind of assum ing bastard that I am. He's got this bag that I guess is probably holding all his possessions. And he comes up to me and he says, "Hey, man. How's it going?" And I say, "Not bad, man. How about you?" He says, "Eh, no shit to talk about." So I kind of chuckle and say, "Yeah, you probably won't believe me, but I know just where you're coming from." And he says, "Yeah, you're right. I don't believe you." And I kind of give him a half-grin 'cause he's probably right. Then he says, "Hey man, is that your natural hair color or do you dye that shit?" My hair is an off-kind of red, but it's always been like that, 'cause that's the kind of fucked up hair I have. So I say, "No, man. It's been like this since I was born." He sort of nods his head, rea l serious like, and then he says, "You must be Irish." And I look at him and say, "Yeah man, you're right." And then he laughs, and he's got this great, rich, deep laugh that seems like it comes straight from his gut, and I think that this guy has got t he most pure laugh I have ever heard. I mean, there is nothing fake or supposing about this laugh; none of that typical bullshit you hear in the laughter of most people. Then this guy says, "Hey man, have you got a cigarette?" And I say, "For you, man, I have a cigarette." So I give him one of cheap mother fucker Marlboro 100's. And then he looks me right in the eyes, kind of points his finger at me, and says, "You're beautiful." And then he walks away. I stand there for a second and I realize I fe el fucking good. I totally got this high elation from this crazy mother fucker. And I realize that”s the best I've felt all day, or for that matter, all fucking week. This guy has totally made my fucking month by that one comment. So then I de cide that instead of just going home, I'm going to walk around the neighborhood for awhile and see if I can spread around a little of this good feeling I've got. So I'm walking around this place but it's really a ghetto. I mean, it's a fucking slum. Bu t then I think, what the fuck is a ghetto anyway? What the fuck is a slum? What the fuck do those words mean? And I realize they don't mean shit. It's like when F. Scott Fitzgerald is talking to Hemingway and F. Scott says, "The rich really are different." And Hemingway says, "Yeah, they've got money." So I'm walking around thinking about all this bullshit. And I'm walking and thinking and trying not to look like a fucking white boy. And there's this patch of ice that I completely don't see , so I slip and fall right on my ass. And there's this group of high school kids sitting around looking all the shit, and they're laughing their asses off at me as I sit there on the fucking sidewalk. And I kind of lose some of my high and I sit there o n the icy sidewalk and I think, "This is exactly the kind of cheap, assuming mother fucker I am."

My name is Adam Bulger. The name has not been changed to protect the innocent. That's probably because I always feel guilty. The events above happened to (and maybe because of) me. Ami has taken my drunken, slightly rambling monologue and turned it into a lovely little short story. A week ago I was talking to my friend Pam. I told her that if I killed myself, my death would inspire countless beautiful poems, stories, and songs. I just found out that my life has inspired this one. It's a great f eeling when you get two reasons not to slash your wrists in one day. Peace, -Adam Bulger

This article represents the thoughts of its author, not the Trincoll Journal, nor Trinity College, and not necessarily the reader! This article may be reproduced only with expressed written consent of the Trincoll Journal. Send E-mail to: Journal@mail.trincoll.edu for more information. © 1994, Trincoll Journal.