Irony?

 Irony?

I still think about you from time to time.  I know it’s been years since I’ve seen you, but you were one of the best friends I’ve ever had.  It may seem weird, but the memory that always comes to mind is that day when you and I were walking around downtown talking.  Not talking about anything in particular, just speech.  Both of us bundled up against that wind.  You know?  It would come from the canyon and give you the sensation that your face had just been bitten by a black bear when it hit you.  You remember that day right?
    I remember how the smoke would be ripped from your mouth as we walked over the bridge and I would have to squint my eyes against the acrid stench as it hit my face.  I didn’t really notice it all that much because our conversation was so lively.  I remember that jacket that you used to wear, you know, the ratty one with all of the holes in it.  You used to say, “it doesn’t matter how many holes I have in this fucking jacket, the only thing that matters is that your extremities are covered,” and then held up your gloved hands and gestured at the wool beanie on your head, “that’s all that it really takes for you to keep warm my man.  Hell, if it weren’t for the wind I would wear a t-shirt.” Then you pitched your cigarette over the bridge where it landed on the frozen river smoldering.  Then you turned back and we kept chatting.  The topic of the day seemed to be how much you hated those who ran our city.  Mainly the ones in the police force, but that was because you didn’t really know much about the ones behind the scenes.  Besides, the ones behind the scenes weren’t the ones that kept giving you MIP’s.  About once a month, it seemed,  because you couldn’t seem to keep out of trouble when you would drink; and you were always drinking.  So was I though.
    I remember that, on that day in particular, you were complaining to me about your last MIP that you had received and how the only reason that you received it was because that was the only thing that any law enforcement officer was looking for.  “When you get a national award for giving out a record number of MIP’s, the police force decides not to focus on anything else,” you said as you lit a new cigarette, “that’s the reason why our state’s DUIs and other crimes are so high.  Hell, that’s why they still haven’t caught that homeless guy that raped that one girl; because he was probably over the drinking age.”  I nodded my head vigorously and threw in my own comments on how inefficient our law enforcement was.  I may have agreed a little too aggressively with what you said, but I was pissed about the recent MIP that I had received too.  It was about this time that the Persian man stopped us and asked if we’d like to buy some jewelry.
    “It would be a good for your girlfriends, eh boys,”  he was a very common face in town and you could always tell him apart from others by his sunglasses, no matter how dark it was, and his greasy hair, “you know your girlfriends would really like some earrings!”  I didn’t even look his way I just passed and kept giving you my opinion about the police force, it took me about half a block to realize that you had stopped and had purchased a bracelet.  You were shaking his hand and thanking him when I got back to you.
    “Who knows, I may have a girlfriend someday that may like this,”  was your reply to my raised-eyebrow inquiry, “and at the very least, it might be some good karma down the way,” and then you slipped the jewelry into your jacket pocket and walked off with a half-grin and the cigarette protruding from your lips. 
    It’s been about three years since you were hit and killed by that drunk driver and you know what?  They hired on about twenty new officers to the police force.  Here’s the catch, though, they hired on the new officers to try and stop the underage drinking “problem” that our town has.  In fact, they call it the “underage task force,” and they talk about them in the newspaper as if they’re some old group of Western gunslingers.  Want to know something even funnier?  The drinking and driving problem is just as bad as it’s ever been.