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Jon Towers of Free Speech Pub. Presents: "The Wrong Ban"

By: Jon Towers



The Wrong Ban



   The Newport stings my lungs for a couple of steps as I limp my way down the busy street. I think to myself about the smoking ban and how I won't be able to do this in a few days. Big Brother will be watching me and the people like me, we'll all be criminals and villains. Never mind that now, the streets downtown usually make me nervous and slightly paranoid. Too many people, not enough soap in too many cases. I was trying not to smell the whirling urban scent being carried on the wind like the city breathing deeply, but you're in the thick of it you know; it has permeated your being.

   Lawmakers should be concerning themselves with the personal hygiene of some of these miscreants you can see on any street corner I thought, like that art student over there, or that dude who just stumbled out of the adult video store, or that Arab. Surely those in the business of big government have noticed the distinct look, stink and dangerousness of some of these people. I mean smokes get banned, they are working on getting rid of delectable french fries and trans-fat. You know? I am just saying what's next? Shower police I tell you, that's what. I might even vote for something like that.

   I started making my way through Market Square, in broad daylight the bars and other places of business open and diligently working through their day, serving people and trying there best at making money. A few steps into the square I noticed a lot of ancient panhandlers sitting around on the planters and droning on and on about whatever. As I took a few more steps in, some of them got up. And it was like when you are watching a flock of birds in the sky, all turning and making sharp changes in their flight paths all at the same time, flight by instinct and surely some other sort of other biological apparatus I know nothing about.

   All of the bums seemed to pivot or shift their attention to me. I was immediately aware that perhaps I had made a mistake by making eye contact with one of them. He seemed energized and began shambling towards me. I got the feeling something might be a little wrong.

   The sun was enveloped in the clouds, casting long shadows and giving the whole scene an ominous feel, a real Pittsburgh Romero-ian nightmare. One of the Zombies held out his pale decaying hand, his eye was covered with a thick cataract. I don't want to talk about his teeth. There were a dozens others behind him. First the one closest to me said it: "Chaange."

   He started moving, closing on me, one aged, dead, lazy footed, dragging step at a time. "Chaange." Soon there was another behind him somewhere, maybe something that used to be female, like my grandmother; "Change?" It might have been a question, I am not sure. The whole group started to slowly limp towards me reaching out and clutching at my arm, all moaning for change. "Spare chaaange." "Extra chaaaaaaange."

   I had no change! I flicked my cigarette to the ground. One of them dove for it clawing at it pressing it to their lips. Eyes wide and knuckles white my first instinct was to run. It's no use, they were closing in on me. Now in the grips of panic, I fumble through my jacket pocket and yanked out my cell phone. I flipped it open but, not to dial 911! I always thought of myself as being a little too resourceful for that, too crafty, besides I can handle something like this on my own.

   No matter how dead these panhandlers were. I held the phone to my ear and sternly walked through the mass of panhandlers. It was a cheap trick I admit. But with the prop I was able to ignore them to pretend I was too busy to listen to their pleas. With this technological talisman I was able to tune them out. I glanced around the square; there was not another young professional in sight, just these rambling, old bums. I righted the wrong of making eye contact with the begging hoard. It's important to remember when you're dealing with a dozen or so savage and brutal bums while they are all in a group: Never make eye contact, no matter how freakish they are.

   Finally I got to the far side of Market Square and the sun came back through the clouds and as I approached the PPG building I snapped my phone closed and looked around. The bums found something new to keep them occupied back by Primanti's Brothers. One of them probably caught some poor injured pigeon and they're trying to shake it down for its bus money.

   As I continued on my way, I thought of how silly it seemed to worry about banning smoking, when there are so many zombies stumbling through the city like drunken sailors, asking for change and ravaging any birds they can catch. Maybe if the politicians were trying to fix the city through policy and over-regulation I thought; there has to be a better place to start than cigarettes? I stop and inhaled in euphoria for a moment, while I am putting my lighter in my pocket I feel little tendrils of smoke and nicotine licking my lungs and making sexy eyes at me from the inside. I could think of many better places to start their social engineering than this.