Mountain Qualia

NaNoWriMo Day 7

"Watch it, asshole!" some voice said when Tipi was getting his bearings on the pavement of a busy shopping street just outside the park. He turned around in shock to see who said it, but he only saw a few backs of people walking with a steady pace away from him. Just in time, though, one of them turned around and flipped Tipi the finger. "What the..," Tipi whispered to himself.

What's the matter with that guy? Tipi wanted to plan his next move and had hoped to pick up inspiration on a short stroll in the streets. But left and right he saw people pointing at him and laughing. It made him acutely aware he was wearing these ridiculous lederhosen, something that had not been a topic at all during the conversation with the raking ranger in the park.

He would not let himself be the center of any mockery, he would wear his outfit with pride. Let them have fun, but not at his expense. Tipi put his nose in the air, released a strong yodel and crossed the street in confidence. The euphoria did not last long because a car skidded honkingly to a full stop inches from Tipi's ankles. The window rolled down, but Tipi hurried along so he would miss the cannonade of swear words that he now could hear anyway, but muffled.

Safely on the other side of the street, a car came alongside Tipi and stopped. The door opened, and a woman emptied an ashtray full of cigarette buds, ashes, and candy wrappers on the street. When Tipi stopped and stared in amazement, the woman scowled at Tipi. "What are you looking at? Do you own the streets? No? Then piss off." The door closed, and she drove off.

Tipi looked back at a huge glass facade with revolving doors. There was a constant influx and outflow of people carrying bags, bags and more bags. Paper bags, elaborately printed tote bags, plastic bags all bulging with clothing and cardboard boxes. So much stuff. He paved a way through the masses of shoppers and scuttled into a more quiet side street.

This quietness also did not last. One by one, seven loud roaring motorcycles flamed by leaving thick wafts of smoke behind that had creeped up Tipi's nose before it had visually reached him. Tipi dropped to the street in a coughing fit. Crawling on all fours, he reached a wall. He sat down and let his back rest against the cold concrete.

With his breath returned he looked straight into the eyes of a scruffy-looking gentleman sitting on a piece of cardboard and holding another one with a message that Tipi could not read from that angle. "Got some spare to spare?" he said to Tipi. "Some money, you speak English? Food, food, money." He gestured the universal signs for eating and money in an almost hypnotic cycle.

"No, " said Tipi. "I mean, I do speak English, but no I've got nothing to spare for you at the moment. Or would you be interested in this Bavarian garment?"

"Get lost then!" the man shouted. "This is my patch, go find your own place to squat."

"What's wrong with you?" Tipi said to the man in disbelief.

"Git!" the man replied. "I'll send my dog after you to rip the flesh from those skinny knees."

Tipi looked at the even more scruffy looking dog next to the man, which did not seem to have any intention of becoming very active soon."

"Very well." Tipi  got up and wiped off his knickerbockers. The wafts of smoke had mixed with the rest of the putrid city air and the regular cacophony of honks, skids, and motor noises had replaced the loud roars. Tipi hurried along to find a place less rousing to the senses. He entered a coffee shop. A coffee shop was a safe space after he rediscovered his consciousness yesterday. The door of the establishment closed behind him and a wall of warm aromatic air washed over Tipi. This almost lulled him into a more relaxed state.

The noise. The chatting. The infinite stream of gabbling and babbling mouths, streaks of non-sensible irrelevant chit-chat, a multi-lingual Babylonian tower of verbal shitstorms entered Tipi's ears making his internal translators beg for a fortress of solitude.