On my recent journey to Seattle, I decided to take a little stroll around my hotel while my wife got ready for the wedding we were about to attend. I thought I’d head along the water, cut to the Public Market, and walk back to my hotel via surface streets. It was a little cold, but the slight breeze had blown the clouds away and a large patch of slightly-less-grey sky emerged. As I climbed the hills, I even worked up a little bit of a sweat.

I went into the market and encountered a place that makes sausage. Now, I’m a big fan of all things wurst, and they were handing out delicious samples of a spicey polish-style sausage and a bratwurst—both excellent. I struck up a conversation with the woman at the counter, and my eyes wandered through the case to discover boudin sitting at the edge, bottom shelf.

“You have boudin (you say it “boo-dan”)? I’ve never seen it outisde Louisiana.”

“You can’t get blood boudin outside of Louisiana, but we have the rice and pork style.”

“That’s great! I’ll take one, if you can heat it up. I like the pork, liver and rice style the best anyway.”

“That’s just pork shoulder, no liver.” (ALARM IN MY HEAD: it ain’t boudin).

“That’s fine. Very cool.”

She told me to come back in a few minutes. I looked at some amazing seafood and then returned. She handed my my sausage and said, “where’s home.”

“Atlanta.”

“No way!” She went on to explain that she grew up in Tucker (suburban Atlanta) and was fed up with Seattle and about ready to move back. She went on and on about how nice it was to see someone from “back home” (didn’t have the heart to tell her I was really from Colorado). I paid for the tightly wrapped bundle of boudin joy and headed out into the diminishing light and increasing cold of Seattle in January.

As I waked up the hill towards the main street that I figured must end up heading toward my hotel, a group of about five tourist girls, about nineteen or twenty, asked if I would take their photos with about six different cameras. I agreed and was strung like a Christmas tree with all manner of photographic apparati. Just as I was preparing to take the first photo, I noticed a tall, skinny and dirty homeless-looking man staring at me.

“Do you have a dollar so a homeless guy can have something to eat?”

“I don’t, at the moment (I really didn’t). I’m sorry.”

“If you hadn’t put my grandaddy on a goddamn ship, I woudn’t be here right now!” he yelled, spit flying.

“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t do it.”

“Well your goddamned grandaddy did!”

“Whatever, man. Beat it!”

He stormed off, muttering curses. The girls smiled uncomfortably. I took their photos and continued on my way, turning left at the major street and then crossing after some distance to walk on the other side. I was walking toward a jewelry store, as far as I can tell, because there was this cool stylized diamand suspended above the sidewalk, above four fully decked-out thug-looking kids doing the pimp limp and generally trying to look tough. I walked straight ahead, because, admittedly, when I noticed them, I was a little startled and decided not to show it or in any way demonstrate that I was a little apprehensive about plunging into a posse of teenagers (I’m guessing that’s what they were).

As I passed, I nodded at the first one, who moved aside to reveal his buddy, who was puffing on a cigarette and took the opportunity to blow through it, so that his ashes covered the front of my jacket. They quickly blew away and, in fact, no harm was done. My thought process was split-second. Do you want to say what you’re thinking, that this kid’s a stupid, ignorant little punk? Do you remember how many obnoxious things you did as a teenager and forgive? Do you deck his ass straight out and run like a motherfucker because, quite frankly, four on one isn’t too fun?

In the end, I did the great action of postmodern drama: nothing. I kept walking, saying, “stupid punk.” They kept walking too.