An anniversary by the tracks

Sept. 11's grim anniversary has come and gone, passing through our lives like a phantom. Retrospection was inescapable as many of us scrolled through our memoirs with trepid ceremonies, shaky recollections and lumps in our throats. Despite our often competitive, political affiliations, we deflated our opinions and partook in soft vigils. Some lit candles and waved flags. Some sat sullenly, glued to the television's spectacle and sensational coverage. Others prayed and baked cakes. I sat under a dead apple tree alongside railroad tracks, sipping beer and swapping stories with vagabonds.\nI hesitate to use vagrant language, in fear of the infamous connotations associated with hitchhikers and tramps, but I'm feeling optimistic, so I'll assume you'll patronize your own fairness. These are the men many of you ignore everyday whole chirping on your new cell phones. The men you dodge are stiff with paranoid suspicion. The ones you insult while hording your loose change, as you stumble into Kilroys for expensive drinks and cheap thrills.\nTransients and drifters are a virtuous breed. They pass through this word like sages on the wind, leaving behind only footprints and cinder. They pass humbly through burgs and villes like Siddhartha, sewing their miles with dandelion seeds and highway karma. Blessed with humility, they hold PhD's in survival. They are bottomless wells of street smarts and know the correct time to build a meal's fire -- at dawn and dusk. The half-light helps elude law's detection. I bet Myles Brand didn't know that.\nThese men are also healers and bearers of good will. And in these times of bad memories and sad homage, who better to turn to?\nFor some reason, the patriotic banners draping the fraternities and sororities weren't doing it for me. The television was too salty -- too much doom, too much government. I wanted the sincerity only known by dire straits and deprivation. The funny thing was though, upon my sojourn by the railroad tracks, my friends were anything but deprived. They were so thick with answers that I about phoned Dubya to let him know we had it all figured out, but that probably would have spoiled the afternoon.\nThere we were, the four of us rolling cigarettes and singing "Love Potion Number Nine" in the shadows of boxcars.\nAt times speaking in rhyme, under a canopy of maple trees, this kind of commemoration felt right. For the first time since last September, I truly felt our national character was heading in the right direction. Contemporary abstractions like "sharing" were in full bloom. I was offered canned fruit and fine tobacco, no questions asked. We daydreamed about language. I heard things that should be scrawled on the walls of the White House in huge red letters. \nTaking a drag, Joe says, "I'd love to speak more languages, just to communicate with more people around me."\nGreed is oily (no pun intended, Cheney) and cancerous, and can tempt even the most devout. As the four of us sat there confronting the flaws of humanity, our search for the leak always led back to cold-hearted GREED. Our apathy was strong for what greed ignores in its lust for profit.\n"When I'm spangin' (asking for spare change), and someone pretends I'm not there, I weep. I don't weep for what they didn't give me, I weep for what they could have had." \nStraight from the mouth of someone you ignored on Kirkwood. He's willing to sing you a song. He has a deep baritone voice. Trust me. I've heard it.