The Wobblers
The paper cup I hold in my hand is half full. I need to make money to pay Caroline, the concierge, to stay at the hostel on Bishop Street tonight. I must be quiet. I can’t scare the Wobblers , or they won’t share their coins. Their coins allow me to sleep in a bed. Suddenly, the redheaded Wobbler who passed by me a few minutes ago is back. “I bought you water. It’s hot today . . . Global warming,” she says nervously. “How do you hold that bottle when you have no hands?” I blurt. I grab the bottle, which makes the redhead flee in fear. “God damn them,” I scream. “Those Wobblers never answer my questions.” Why did I just lose control like that? I rely on the generous Wobblers . They are better than the most populous Wobblers : they go through life with smartphones attached to their ears and vacuous expressions on their faces. That kind of Wobbler never shares anything with humans like me. It must be lunchtime. I can see my older Wobbler friend coming down the street. Every day, he com