"Hey, whatup? Jo, hanging low, bro, the name is Jaz-zy no." Shifting from one leg unto the other, arms hanging baboonish, swirling, in a rhythm on the bebop sound in my head.
Not waiting an answer, already changing beat and pace. "I've a job, great boss, will help me, this time for sure, out of this misery. I'll introduce you. You'll see, he's great!"
Not noticing people have a hard time keeping up, turn around, heading for the shelter-dorm, resting, peace at last. That's how it feels: being lucky.
"God damned, who stole my stuff bro, fuck, why me, even my passport is gone, I don't mind the stuff, but the picture of my brother is in there." Yelling, looking eagle-eyed, lightning striking, not hitting anything, no reaction to be evoked.
"Yes, apparently you moved to bed 7 and you're bag was still in locker 9, so probably the cleaning staff took it out, put it away, and unfortunately I can't find it. So, I'll write it down in the logbook." she said in a monotonous voice, smiling as she solved this problem.
We found Jaz-zy the next morning, stoned out of his head, on the steps, thrown out of the shelter for the yelling last night (the logbook stated), no bag to be found. Looking to each other, thinking the same: Killed by red tape!