All in a Fight's Vindication

Another day has come and not yet gone, and I'm wondering what to have for lunch. Some things never change. I latch my bike to the fence and walk toward the center of the main square. The sun is beating down on us today about as strongly as it ever has. A few people walk by without a word, and I couldn't be more pleased. I need some alone time before I leave.
Settling down on a bench, I watch a Moroccan man showing his son how to tear off bread and give it to the birds. He patiently guides his son's hand with his own to ensure that he doesn't throw the bread with too much force. In a language that I cannot understand, he tells the young boy what to do.
Hold the bread with your palm up. Toss it underhand so as not to frighten them. No, not AT the birds, toss it toward their feet.
Lounging out, I stretch my back across the back of the bench and remove my jacket. Reed is sitting against a tree nearby reading a book. He looks more content than usual today. The young boy is giggling hysterically as the birds jump over each other in order to get their beaks on a piece of bread. Hmm, bread. I want some bread, and some good bread at that. I grab my jacket and begin traversing the square. Visible at the southeast corner there's a grocery store. I'm enormously pleased thinking about lunch today; I'm going to dish out some cash and treat myself. Once inside, I snatch a fruit smoothie off the shelf, pull a full loaf of French bread out of a basket, and head to the meat section. I buy the nicest German sausage that I can find and head back out the door.
Good, my bench is still empty. The birds congregate around my feet as I toss them my crumbs. The bread is soft and the wurst is perfect. Lounging back and commanding my bird army with my any bread-tossing whim, I am king of the plaza. That's right, birdies, I deserve this.
An accented voice interrupts, "Good afternoon. Do you have any money for me?"
My tranquility shattered, I look to my right. Sitting next to me on the bench is a toothless refugee grinning all gums at me; someone is trespassing on my land. I'm in no mood for being hassled, so I offer him his small fee to scram.
"Sure, here's a euro."
Snatching it greedily, he tucks it in his pocket while saying thanks. Eying my wurst and bread, he goes further, "May I have some of your food?"
This is too much. He could buy a loaf of bread with the money I just gave him. "No. You may not."
"Please?"
"No, now please leave me alone."
"This is a public bench. I think I'll stay until you give me some of that sausage."
What a bastard. I lose my temper. I yell. He yells. Hell, we all yell.
Things having escalated within a minute or two, he lunges unexpectedly for my fancy German wurst, and manages to get his grubby hands on one end! I push him away and take it back. He pushes me hard, and I retaliate with a bird king's righteous fist of fury. The small man crashes to the ground and screams bloody murder. Cry, baby, cry, just don't mess with me.
"Webb, what are you doing??" It's Reed.
"He tried to steal my food, so I showed him what's up."
"Dude, you just beat up a bum!! This looks really bad."
I take a moment to stop clutching my hard-fought food and glance around. Sure enough, there's a fairly sized crowd gathering all around us. The look on Reed's face is one of absolute terror; heck, I may as well have kicked a puppy and slapped a hoe to elicit a response of this magnitude. But right now I just don't care. I did what I had to and any judgmental douche can suck it.
As the police arrive in their goofy helmets I begin tossing the bum-tainted bits of sausage to the birds. I suppose I can finish the bread while the cops lecture me.

Standing around in my underwear

At once I snap awake. The same guy is sitting on the couch across from me, still lackadaisically reading his textbook while he spends the majority of his time texting someone; hopefully a beautiful girl worth the time and distraction. I've probably been asleep for awhile, and look at my watch. 2:56. Less than four minutes until class. I've been asleep for over an hour! Jamming my phone back into my pocket and cramming my book back into my pack, I throw on my jacket too with a backpack clenched between my teeth. An exit, right here. Wow, why haven't I used this exit before, instead of walking all the way around to the east side?
I run through the door at full speed as a screech accosts my ears. A fire alarm? Both of my hands are still placed firmly on the door handle as I halt in sickening realization. This is an emergency exit. Six inches from my face, written boldly on the glass, are the words Emergency Exit Only: Alarm Will Sound. Well, they weren't kidding, were they? My heart sinks. Shit.
An eternity turning around, I see everyone around the library looking around confusedly and packing up their things. Bigger shit. I need to go to class. I'll be late if I stay. Looking back at my watch, 2:57. One minute awake so far. Bad things happen when I've been awake for fewer than five minutes. People in my corner of the library are already beginning to spot me, still awkwardly holding the emergency exit open with two hands. No one points, but more and more are looking.
A deep breath before the plunge. Holding my head up high, I release the door and wave, saying loudly, "Hi. Yeah, that was me. My bad, everyone."
Still, no one says anything to me. Not even a chuckle. Pointing toward the front desk, where crowds from the rest of the library are already heading, I put up both arms reassuringly in Moses-style and declare, "I'll go take care of it."
The walk of shame is briefly elongated. Is there some kind of fine for setting off the fire alarm unnecessarily? If so, I am so leaving them with a false name. Hi, my name is Brian Weller, I think with a smirk. The employees at the front desk are packing their things too when I get there. With authority I place both of my palms on the counter. They both give me their attention.
"Hi. Yeah, that fire alarm is my bad. Don't evacuate or call the fire department. I totally just tried walking through the emergency exit."
"Oh," the blond one replies, her face betraying obvious thoughts of laughter.
"So, yeah, just shut that sucker off."
"Okay, we'll get on that."
"All right, well, bye."
"Bye."
I turn around and stride out the door quickly as a few bespectacled bookworms race by. No backward glances for me. I did what I had to do and I didn't even have to give them a name, and I'd rather keep it that way.

Marinating in Misdirection

I'm seventeen again for a moment. Trudging along somewhere between 14 and 25. Glancing around at the happy couples, I feel grossly misplaced. Looking over toward the pool, at the grinding crowd of single students, I feel grossly misplaced. Limbo in a hot tub time machine remembering that this year I'll be 23 as I'm offered a bucket of beer for the twentieth time today.
Any drinks from the bar?
No, thank you.
You sure? Buy four beers and you get one free.
No.
The more you spend the more you save. I pray that no one for no one's sake would fall for such a transparent marketing gimmick. I'm strung and stretched between carefree and maturity. Having to angle the bar so that it will support the heavy shower curtain. Drenched and collapsing just when your mind wanders to other things.
The sun beats down on us as I apply more sunscreen to my bald head. Maybe I'll be 30 this year. I don't want the peeling to be too severe. The same waiter walks by without so much as a glance in our direction. I see on his user-friendly name tag that he's from Zimbabwe. Hello, Mickel, how may you serve me today? As Mickel tears the name tag away from my groping eyes and throws it overboard. And so the revolution begins. I can only imagine what he's thinking while he traverses the deck. Does he think that this is a good job? Does he prefer Bud Light over Corona Light? Is he laughing secretly at them? At us? At me?
How much disdain can a Zimbabwean mask behind a grin?
My two twitterpated friends are getting into a tickle war. I laugh and watch as they embrace happiness. No longer seventeen and gagging again. Instead I am proud to have such happy friends. Moving away to the opposite side, I distract myself with the hair on my forearm. As the suds dry, the hair remains slicked down as if I used gel. If my arm hair were long enough, would I spike it or trim it? Or alternate the two?
The Zimbabwean waiter is watching us. Upon eye contact he turns away, back to his shadow.