I feel that classic old-fashioned blood boiling over sensation, coating my throat as the man with a mildly drunken slur to his speech repeats that word he doesn't own- over and over- replacing words like "bad" and "weird' with a word for a family he has no clue is mine. I grind my teeth, padlock my eyes to my magazine, and do my best to "understand" and "let it go"

But there comes a time when you can no longer "understand" because why should I choose understanding in order to allow for ignorance to fill the void. "He doesn't know better" I start to tell myself; likely more for self preservation than gifted excuses. But that's the thing- he can know better.

So before I try to gear myself up for a big show on an unwanted stage, or remember why it is we wear boots of this size, I remember what I'm doing this for. I compromise. I'll give him an opportunity to listen carefully and remember my words before taking any drastic measures. (Not to mention I am severely lacking in experience for those)

His eyes crinkle, he sways to the hum of his own vocal chords as he introduces himself to me, offering to "give me anything I need' promising and repeating "If you ever need anything-"

So I take a sharp breath that feels like a welcome cold sting before I hover beside him, and speak lowly, loud enough to be heard by him and only him so he knows I'm serious and this isn't a show for my friends or his.

"You said anything I need right? Well- what I need from you is to stop using the word Fag so fucking much. "

He apologizes and is nearly in tears with a pleading intoxicated tone, all I've done is speak but he seems to welcome the audience more than I do. I can't place if he is sincere or performing a one man act I didn't pay for. But that's not up to me. He apologizes over and over and I explain in as neutral of a voice as possible, that I opted to speak to him for a reason. If I didn't think there was any use or positive result of this conversation, I would have jumped straight into the fighting end of the pool. But I rather use my voice first. He thanked me and I returned to reading about the 70's in new york, replacing the boil in my throat with a cold fizzing unnaturally yellow-green. He may not change his ways entirely but if I can make some stranger at least watch his tongue around people like me, well at least he's thinking before he speaks. My job is done.

That same hectic Wednesday morning in that crowded room, that sure as hell looked like someone's basement, I heard the fast paced words of a swaying girl. She seemed to lay on a few more layers of preservation than the old man. She talked so quickly as though she was chewing on her words after days without food. She ran her hands through her black shag like she was convinced stillness would take her breath away. She reminds me of myself in that way but I'm just experiencing it raw. She tells me about the day marking 12 years of loss for her, she can't be older than me, if anything I'd say a few years younger. I'm 25 in this moment, 12 years is a large slice of that quarter length fucked up pie to spend wanting someone. As I stand here hearing her story and counting the times she's informed me of alcoholic quantities, I am frantically searching for a way to reduce this. I can't erase it I just want to loosen the strain. I advise her against the ink therapy she mentions, despite relating to the desire. I know that if I can at least shift her hyperactive mind to something else or talk about a local tattoo shop to keep her focus here a little longer, I can buy us both time. I never advise against body mods, so if I am its for a good reason. I don't want her under that needle with what I can only guess is in her system. I know theres a chance she wont listen to me, I know I can't lock her feet in place and keep her from going to an undetermined location for this make shift therapy. But I can give her iron supplements, encourage the caffeine, and ask her closest friends to keep an eye on her. I need her blood staying in her body, it needs to thicken and warm her pale face. Maybe this wont do anything permanent but at least she will take a little longer, and have a few more speed bumps to climb to get there. I've done what I can.

Today, afternoon is pulling at my legs as I spot a man holding a large flat screen TV. He switches hands repeatedly, muttering about the distance he's going, telling himself it wont be too long. I'm not sure he will accept or even appreciate help, someone to just relieve a portion of the weight. So I offer to walk beside him instead, helping him check cars at intersections instead of having to crane his withered neck over the black screen he can't wait to put down. I listen to his many cuss words and check for similarities, I manage to catch a few! He's ranting about equality, in a moderately uneducated format but under that cover he is saying how he gets stress headaches over the hatred in the world and that skin color shouldn't affect our levels of kindness. He offers me the last of his cigarette even while straining himself in front of me, and I nod to his statements about big companies taking advantage of the little guy. And as I sit here, hearing his anger towards the system and bigotry, I realize this guys pretty damn punk too. Maybe I'm doing his job.