In the spring of 2000, I lived for about a month on Fremont Street in Las Vegas. It was not an experience I choose to remember fondly, because the trip was rushed and not thought out well on my behalf, though I had some unique adventures there.
One Saturday afternoon, I went to a nearby gas station to pick up a few things for the day, and I noticed that these two hobos were having a very spirited conversation. Words were exchanged of the four letter variety, then punches were thrown, then a wrestling match broke out complete with the use of a grocery cart as a weapon.
My brain knew not to get involved in such a fracas, but this fight was a train wreck I could not look away from. I did not know what they were fighting about, I just wondered why they were fighting to the death, or at least until one of them passes out. After a few moments of this, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself gawking at the fight, so I whistled softly and walked away from the scene without knowing the fight’s outcome. For all I knew, this could have been a setup of some kind, with myself as the live bait.
I do wonder what happened to those two men all these years later. I wonder if they’re still alive, or if they’re still hobos. It’s not like they left me their business cards or anything, so I can’t look them up the next time I go out there.