The Street Performer

There was something about the street performer that reminded me of my childhood. There was something about his voice. His clothes. His demeanor. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was so familiar and why I seemed to know him, but I was more suspicious when he wouldn’t make eye contact with me. I tried and tried to get him to notice me, but his gaze went right past me every time he asked for volunteers. 

I was so intrigued by why this stranger was suddenly so familiar to me, I went to the point of watching his entire show and worked up the courage to talk to him after. But yet again, I was completely and absolutely ignored. At this point, I was so angry about being overlooked – seemingly on purpose – that I knew I had to know who this man was. What his name was, where he lived, everything. I knew I would cross a line by following him home so I started to haunt the street corners where he would typically perform. As I expected, I was largely ignored. The longer I watched the performer, the more similarities I found between the two of us. The day finally came when I figured out who he was and I finally realized why he was ignoring me. He was responsible for my death. I just wished, as my father, he would have been more careful before falling asleep with a lit cigarette.