How I Know I'm Free by Dan BiegerSUMMARY: Entry for July Flash Fiction ContestThe TV reporter person bent over the man sitting under the bridge on Central Ave, the one that goes over the dried up river. Behind her, her camera man jockeyed for position to let the lens capture both the interviewer and the interviewed, emphasis on interviewer.
"Sir, we've heard it said that you think you're free. If that is true, why do you think that?"
"How do I know I'm free? That's your question? You come down to this bridge in 110 degree weather because somebody told you I think I'm free and you have this great big holiday coming and you need a human interest story and that brings you here? The press isn't free; it's crazy?"
The camera reluctantly left the reporter to assess the man who thought the press were crazy. He was unshaven, uncombed, unwashed, unfed. In fact, he wore all the un's ever applied to the homeless and wore them with a defiance that surprised both the reporter and the camera man. The indigent's voice came out low, gravelly, and in bursts, each thought his mind ejected with a specific word pack.
"How do I know I'm free? Hell, woman, how do you know I'm not?"
Reporter persons don't answer questions; they ask them. "I didn't make a claim either way. I said that folk have reported that you believe you're free and I just asked how you know?"
"How do I know?...That's a damned good question, girl...That is really a damned good question."
A minute passed, a minute that would be edited out if the interview actually made it onto the TV news program. After that minute went its way, the reporter person asked the question again: "How do you know you're free?"
The man looked up at the woman, his brown eyes darting quick to her blue eyes and then away. "You ain't goin' away, are you?"
"Not till we get an answer." She looked away from the man to the camera, a knowing smile spread wide.
"Shit, damn, hell! If I was really free you wouldn't be nosing around...but, damn it all to hell, here you are.
‘'So, I guess the answer to your question is...that I no longer believe I'm free...I got to answer your $%&^$%^ questions...and then I'll be free again. Yeah, I know...that's one of them seven words...edit it out if you have to."
He coughed hard, covering his mouth with a dirty fist, then spat in a direction safely away from the reporter. She wondered if this indicated emphezema or lung caner or some other chest malady. Other than the dirt and grime she found nothing to suggest age as the culprit. His face was free of wrinkles and his hair sported no gray. He interrupted her musing with: "It's like this, girl...when I was child, I wasn't free...Lots of learned folk talk about the freedom of childhood...it isn't free...There are limits imposed,...what you can do,...what you can say...They're teaching you manners...maybe survival skills...but they tell you...when to get up,...what to eat,...where to play,...what to say and not to say...Then,...they send you off to school...for more of the same... Much more of the same.
"Comes a time...you can go to college...or you can do something else. Go to college...you're still in school...People still telling you...when to get up...what to eat...where to play...what to say and not say...Same old, same old dressed in different words.
"Maybe you go get a job instead...maybe join the army...Doesn't matter...Either way, somebody telling you... when to get up...what to eat...where to play...what to say and not say...
"Maybe you want to be a farmer...same old, same old...somebody telling you what to grow...when to grow it...when to leave your fields bare..
"Ain't no way in your world to be free...Always somebody telling you limits...you can do this but not...you can say this but not that...
"No, no, no...I can see it you eyes, girl...You want to tell me about...how people living together...need limits...Maybe so...but ain't none of them people free.
"So, I decided to change...the same old, same old...Made myself a hunter-gatherer...-he laughed hard causing another cough and another spit - ..that's what I am now...a hunter-gatherer...I hunt what I want...when I want...I talk to myself...and say whatever comes to mind...Try to avoid other people...no people, no limits...simple as that."
The reporter frowned, looked back at the camera, and then turned back to the man: "You can't hunt whatever you want. There's laws about property that limit what you can hunt."
"There ain't no laws about salvage, girl...dumpsters are open range...alleys? open rage...garbage dumps? Open range...Stay away from people...that's the secret...that's how you stay free...if there ain't no laws...you can't break "em."
"That's anarchy," the reporter said.
"Good job, girl...you memorized your dictionary...that's the only pure freedom there is...anarchy...but it only works...when there ain't other people around.
"I stay away from people, girl...all people...all the time...that's how I know I'm free."
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