Battle of the Breadsticks
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It all started innocently enough on a beautiful summer morning. I strolled along the neighboring shopping center adjacent to the G train on one of my all too infrequent visits back to my hometown of Melbourne after moving to Washington, D.C., in 1993.
Amid the usual stream of shoppers, diners and coffeeholics there emerged a rather scruffy, forlorn looking fellow carrying the many bags of different sizes one usually associates with folks down on their luck and of no fixed abode.
Besides his muttering of unintelligible phrases, two other things made this bloke stand out even more amid this tranquil cafe society setting. Visible in his many bags of many colors was an assortment of at least a dozen foot-long breadsticks.
I can only assume that he availed himself to these after they had been left outside the doors of local diners and coffee shops by bakers making their early morning deliveries. This is a common site in early morning Melbourne. The honor system usually prevails with the bakers’ goods remaining undisturbed on their doorsteps until the shop owner opens for business. Well apparently not this time. Allegedly of course!
Adding to this odd sight, our bedraggled breadstick bloke was also attempting, with very little success, to roll a cigarette one-handed. This left a trail of cigarette papers and tobacco that he duly spat along the footpath. He was Melbourne’s version of Hansel and Gretel minus the bread crumbs replaced with cigarette papers and spittle adorned tobacco.
Like most of my fellow Melbournians, rather than confront him for his transgressions I gave a wry smile and bemused shake of the head. After all, what harm was he doing other than allegedly stealing the breadsticks, denying honest shopkeepers of their livelihood and profusely littering the streets with his tobacco-laced, potentially tuberculous-ridden spittle!
My Aussie/Irish convict forebears would have been proud at my still intact convict sense of justice and bonhomie for a fellow motley straggler in this thing we called life.
However not all shared my “live and let live” sentiments. One civic-minded citizen made the bold move of confronting our bastion of breadsticks.
“What do ya think you’re doing ya silly old bugger,” he bellowed.
“You’re making a mess of the streets. Go and give that bread back ya thieving bastard.”
But this old bloke wasn’t going to accept such civic-minded impertinence.
“What!” he yelled, ordering him to mind his own business.
Our irate breadstick bloke then attempted an aggressive fighting stance. Unfortunately this attempt at pugilism seemed to be affected by foreign substances as his body swayed from side to side and he stumbled into the gutter.
Seizing upon this weakness, his opponent threatened, “I’ll bloody call the cops if ya keep that up!” He then decided that discretion was the better part of valor and departed the scene.
But breadstick bloke wasn’t going to be denied his retribution. As his protagonist walked to his car, the old bugger showed his true athletic prowess by hurling the breadsticks at him, javelin and circus knife-thrower style. The streets of East Melbourne were now awash with foot-long breadsticks, coffee scrolls, jam buns and even the occasional Dame Edna Everage Lamingtons not previously visible in his many bags of tricks.
His opponent cowered in fear and attempted to deflect the fuselage of bread bombs from the crusty curmudgeon. Meanwhile the crowd of amazed onlookers either doubled over in laughter or yelled abuse, which further enraged our aggrieved homeless warrior.
Once his ammunition of purloined pastries was spent, he grabbed his bags and went on his way with nary a policemen in sight. Another fugitive of justice on the streets of Melbourne! Our civic-minded hero appeared to emerge unscathed but nevertheless this random act of carbohydrate carnage left me wondering.
What could I and my fellow citizens have done to prevent this? If only we had been carrying our own legally purchased breadsticks we could have stopped the crusty old bugger in his tracks.
As the old saying goes, “The only thing stopping a bad guy with a foot-long breadstick is a good guy with his own foot-long breadstick!”
After witnessing this scene I vowed to take a proactive stance. From now on I will be carrying my own concealed foot long strapped to my thigh, or perhaps a smaller hot dog bun will do the trick.
Of course this event made me come to another very important realization.
Maybe I have lived in U.S.A. way too long?!