The Mafia's Finest

Something happened to me on the way back from lunch today that was both strange and yet somehow perfectly in character for my little neighborhood in downtown Reno. My walk to work takes me through a small public square alongside the Truckee River. It's one of those concrete amphitheater-type spaces leading down to the water, an open space where the city puts up it's Christmas tree in December. The little park is right next to a vaguely alternative-feeling coffee shop called Java Jungle and a small apartment building that advertises "dorm-style living" (i.e. no kitchens, shared bathrooms) at very cheap prices, so a transient population of young, underemployed people is always hanging out there. Most of them look vaguely punkish with a little goth thrown in, some are sort of hippie-ish, and I think a few just sort of wear whatever they can find and don't bathe often. On top of this, there's a Greyhound bus station just up the block, and this brings in a never-ending supply of itinerant laborers, vagrants, the mildly mentally-disturbed and other colorful characters. This little concrete public space is often the first place they find after getting off the bus from wherever they just came in from, and quite a few seem to like to chose to continue to hang out in the little park until some good motivation for leaving come along. In my experience watching what goes on there, this can sometimes take quite a while.

I don't want to give the impression that I dislike these people. I doubt any of them are dangerous or even potentially dangerous. Often they will ask for spare change (which I'm usually pretty free with--somehow they always seem to know who the suckers are) but that is usually the extent of the interaction I'm likely to have with most of these men and occasionally women. But a lot of these folk seem to be lacking whatever switch exists inside the brain of most people which keeps their inner-monologue from being spoken outloud. Often they'll just say whatever pops into their head to no one in particular, and this can lead to some amusing results. One morning I remember passing a small, thin bald man on a street corner who was angrily screaming at the top of his lungs in a raspy voice, "Smokin'!!! Drinkin'!!! Sex!!! Jerkin' Off!!!" I and everyone else on their way to work simply walked by this strange and probably disturbed man as though he were invisible. This sort of thing isn't a daily or weekly occurance in my neighborhood, but it's not particularly uncommon either.

Today is an unusually cold day for May (see previous post) and walking back from lunch I was wearing a heavy peacoat over the usual shirt and tie. My pants are a dark gray, almost black. As I passed by the movie theater at First and Sierra Street a white-haired man who looked to be about sixty approached me in the other direction. He was completely alone. As he got to within about ten feet of me he said in a full voice dripping with sarcasm "Oh great, the Mafia's Finest." As he passed I looked behind me to try to determine what he was talking about. There was nothing there but an empty street and sidewalk. Then it dawned on me; he could only have been talking about me.

I suppose a comment like that should be written off as the silly and possibly dellusional ramblings of a vagrant, but I couldn't help but wonder what it was that made him see me this way. Yes, I was wearing a shirt and tie and a dark coat, but other than that as far as I can tell nothing about my appearance would make one think "organized crime." As far as I know the Mafia has no predilection for peacoats. And yet, this was his first impression upon seeing me. Seeing me in a dress shirt and tie, was he trying to make a statement about corporate corruption? The dangers of conformity? My ridiculous fashion sense? Or more likely, was he just a loon? I can tell right now that for whatever reason, this is going to be something I wonder about for a while.