Traveling

I'm reading Henry Miller's "Black Spring" and today I was having somewhat of a Miller Moment, so I went downtown with my sketchbook to draw in Pritchard Park.
Prichard Park, if you are not from Asheville, is the place where the Friday evening drum circle is held, and when that's not happening, it is where the bums hang out. Always good, if not a little scary, for people-watching.
When I got there, there were three people playing instruments (banjo, guitar, and something else) so I started to draw them, but they all left. That left not much else besides a bunch of pigeons and about 8 people who were scheming on how to get a dollar out of me.
I watched a few of them on top of the stone steps feeding the birds. They swarmed around them furiously. When they ran out of crumbs, they resorted to trying to catch them.
A young-looking guy with grey hair pulled into a ponytail sat near me and asked if I was writing poetry. I said no and he acted as if he didn't believe me. His name was Scott, he said. He was pleasant, from out of town, but wanted no directions or suggestions about the city. He walked away, looking happy.
As soon as Scott left, one of the guys caught a pigeon. It flapped it wings tremendously, trying to escape, but it was caught by the tail. Everyone thought that was pretty funny, and finally it must have beat it's wings hard enough to break free, because suddenly the guy was standing there with a fistful of feathers. He seemed perturbed by that and his friend retaliated by attempting to lob a bag of nuts at the pigeons that had bravely stayed behind.
I don't know what the segue was for the next bit, because I was about to leave in disgust, but the same guy who was dealing with the pigeons said something to a homeless woman that she didn't like. They yelled back and forth and a very thin, young homeless boy ran over to interrupt. The woman pulled a knife out of her backpack expertly and brandished it in front of the fat man. She held it behind her back and no one came forward. He just stood there dumbly. Stuffed animals were falling out of her now open backpack. Someone picked up a dropped hat.
She folded the knife after a few moments, and no sooner had she walked away, the fat man picked up a couple of glass salad dressing bottles and started threatening the skinny guy with them. He wrestled one out of his hand and they sparred with them before one fell. It was plastic.
The fat one yelled and then threw both of them down onto the cement, where they crashed into white-coated pieces.
He got run out after that and everyone started to pick up. I found a few shards and tossed them away. It was all I could do since everyone jumped to help so quickly; before I could even walk across the pavilion.
I left the park and found Scott on the next street standing next to another young-looking guy playing guitar. He had messy reddish hair. I can't remember his name.
I asked if it was OK to stand with them, and Scott asked me a lot of questions about where I was from, how I got to Asheville, and literature. He and his friend had been traveling in a van from Ohio and ran out of gas around the corner. But they both liked it in Asheville and were going to stay for a while. Scott thought he might move here permanently.
We all walked over to the Dripolator to see if they would let them play guitar for tips, but it was a no-go. Scott bought a cup of coffee and we all sat outside talking about strange things that had happened along the way.
It was really very pleasant. I wish I had had more to offer them. Maybe they wouldn't have wanted it that way.