Tumbleweed

On a visit to my hometown, I perched myself in a Tim Horton's seat as I watched for people I might know. My hometown was, with an emphasis on 'was', filled to the brim with characters.

A few remained.

High priests of voodoo economics had rendered the town redundant. Like so many gutted towns, many had left. The town's character had changed. The old piss and vinegar spirit had been replaced with mind deadening opiates and tranquilizers. Those that stayed behind retreated into a haze of drugs, fat, sugar, and television.

As I sat, pretending to read and half pretending to drink coffee, a loud energetic bustle of strangers laughed their way through the entrance. They stood out, garish-like; like politicians. I recognized one of them from the news. It was Preston Manning, leader of the fledgling Reform Party. They were campaigning and drumming up support for their new brand of 'conservatism'.

A silhouette grabbed my attention and dragged it out of the coffee shop. It moved briskly with singular intent. It moved like a rooster along the side of the building as a group of chattering young women made way. The figure was wearing a long trench-coat and a wide brimmed hat. In no time it made its way to the bright entrance. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the Gypsy.

The Gypsy; still alive and in full living colour, his Gallic face weathered and alive. I hadn't seen him in well over a decade.
The politicians caught my attention when they came in but the Gypsy brought me into a heightened state of awareness.

"Sam", he said as he entered. He walked straight to me. Without even sitting down or asking about my life or where I was living, he recruited me to a chore that would place me squarely between a rock and a hard place.

He was working on a project.

He wrote his phone number on a scrap of paper, place it in my hand and said, "call me tomorrow". Then he said, "I'm going to weed the garden". He turned abruptly, walked over to the now seated political party, and reached into his pocket. The politician smiled and put his hand out to shake the Gypsy's hand. The Gypsy pulled out a bullet, placed in the politicians hand and said "think about it".

He was gone back into the night as quickly as he came in.
The impact of what had just occurred hit me. The Spirit ambushed the abstract, flesh ambushed plastic, and the Gypsy ambushed the Reform Party.

The Gypsy was a nocturnal creature. For him, the divide between night people and day people was vast and any notion of bridging it was not only unfathomable, it wasn't desirable. He paid lip service to them but only in daylight. On his turf they played by his rules. They were clearly on the Gypsy's turf.

It wasn't the presentation of the bullet that saw them on the next flight. There was something in the eyes of the Gypsy that suggested they were in alien and unforgiving territory and that they were not welcome.

As they silently got up, put on their coats and left, I wondered why they thought they could plant southern seeds in a northern climate.