The Followings of a Red Beret

The Sea Urchin

I shift the coins around in my can with my fingertips, trying not to make them jangle too much against the metal. The sound of money attracts unwanted attention, as I've learned over the past however many years. "Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six. Forty-six cents," I count under my breath. Adding that to the five dollars and ninety-seven cents I earned earlier, I should have enough for some crackers and soup! Finally! Smiling, I dump the coins into a plastic bag, before securing it with a rubber band, as the pockets of my pants are too ripped to hold anything.

I start off for the supermarket. It's only a block away from the shelter. The journey is uneventful, as usual, save for the odd looks other people throw my way.

After buying the crackers and a can of soup, I stuff them into my plastic bag and head out. A group of college kids- two girls and a boy- hanging outside the supermarket take notice of me. "Look at that hobo over there," the tall college boy snickers. "Don't even have any shoes on his feet."

One of the girls says, "Ugh, I bet he hasn't showered in years. So gross."

"He's probably never even heard of soap," her friend chips in.

The college boy approaches me, a mocking smirk planted on his face. "Why are ya hanging 'round here? Not like ya got any money to pay for food."

I raise my eyebrows. "And?"

"So scram, ya rat!"

"Not yer place to tell me what to do," I reply coolly.

The boy narrows his eyes. "Ya better get a move on, or I'll make ya."

I fold my arms across my chest. "Try me."

He comes nearer, his chest puffed out like a bullfrog. I guess that's supposed to intimidate me or something. I'm not really sure, though "Get outta here, sewer scum!" he barks. This guy's really creative with his insults.

"You can go first," I say.

He pulls his arm back- to punch me, I suppose- and I dodge it easily, considering he gave me plenty of warning. Slowest punch I've ever seen. Either this kid's high, or he's nuts. Maybe a bit of both, now that I think about it.

"Get 'em, Colt!" one of the girls yells with fervor. They're cheering like fangirls. He comes at me, arms wide open like he wants to crush me in some sort of hug-slash-choke hold. I take a step back and duck under his attempt to "hug" me. He grunts and turns around slowly. I punch him in the stomach before he can react and he keels over, loudly crying out in pain. I'm starting to lean towards the 'he's drugged up' conclusion. I didn't even hit him that hard!

The girls run over to his side. "Yer- yer a mean old man!" he complains. His friends give me vicious glares. Gosh, I'm only around 48, not 

that 

old.

I slowly walk away from the trio, a little confused by the confrontation- if you could even call it that.

It'll be getting dark soon. I heavily trudge down the sidewalk back to the shelter, walking like most of the people who live at the shelter do. Slouched back, arms hanging limply, loose footsteps. The people that pass by give me disgusted looks or cast nervous looks at me when they see my grimy, worn clothes and my soiled hands. I'm used to it, though- have been for quite a while. Some people just can't see anything past the clothes that others wear.

I'm almost to the shelter, and I see a little boy and his mother walking near me. The boy tries to get closer to me, but is harshly yanked back by his mother. "No, Sean. He's dirty." She glares at me spitefully.