I used to spend a lot of time locked up in my room, mostly reading Marx and Nietzsche, as well as some of the newer badasses like Foucault and Jameson. I read this stuff so I could understand other stuff, but there was another side to it, too, which was that I wanted to learn how to help people. I thought reading those guys would help me figure that out.
      Back then I also read a lot of self-help books. The trouble was, the self-helpers either said that you should become a wage slave and learn to like it, or that some people are actually "dethroned kings" who need to be "returned to the palace." Both suggestions seemed stupid to me.
      One day, I had an idea of my own that was better than any of the ideas I'd found in books. After the initial flash, though, it was more like the idea of an idea, and then it was just the vague impression of an idea. So I left to get something to drink. I don't know why, but thinking too much always makes me feel thirsty.
      On the way to the Albion, a venerable dive off a tiny alley of the same name on Sixteenth, I made a big loop around the projects so I could space out a little without having to worry about getting jumped. I was almost to the door--above which the neon reads SERVICE FOR THE SICK--when this homeless guy seemed to materialize out of streetlight itself, asking for spare change. I was startled, but I couldn't help noticing how weak and old he looked, like he could hardly move. He also had a strange expression on his face that said he would definitely throw shit around if only he had the power of telekinesis.
      At the same time, I heard a voice whispering in my ear, the voice of my guardian angel. Or maybe it was my guardian demon, I don't know. Socrates supposedly got all his knowledge from a demon, so it was something like that, or maybe not. Does it matter? Anyway, Socrates' demon always told him not to do stuff; mine always tells me to do stuff.
      My demon said: "You're only somebody's equal if you can prove it, and you only deserve freedom if you can kick ass."
      So I decided to fuck the guy up. First I kicked him in the shins. When he fell over, I kneed him in the face. Then I kicked out his two front teeth, which sucked, because I got blood all over my shirt. Since I'm not that strong and since I don't do much cardio-boxing or cross-training or anything, I was getting tired. But I didn't quit. I grabbed the bum by the throat and smashed his head against the wall, over and over and over again. This seemed like the best way to fuck him up quick. (I'd already checked the scene out--there wasn't anyone around who was going to do anything about it. And no way would a cop be strolling around the Mission that late on a Sunday, either.)
      After I had smashed his head enough and kicked him in the back enough (I think I broke his shoulder blade), I grabbed this branch that was lying around and started to beat on him. I beat on him like I was tenderizing a steak.
      Wham!
      Wham!
      Wham!
      That's when the miracle happened. The old bastard jumped up, full of energy. He was revived, like he'd just taken a power-nap. And he started coming at me.
      He socked me in the right eye. He loosened three or four of my teeth. Then he started beating on me with the same big branch I'd used on him. It was a fucking transformation.
      It seemed like I had helped him after all. I had given him some pride. A reason to fight back.
      I made a sign that I thought our conversation was over. I suggested that, obviously, we were equals, and that if he wanted some of my money he could have it.
      The only thing I asked in return was that if he wanted to help other people the way I'd helped him, he should. He should do the same thing to them when they hit him up for change that I had done to him.
      Leaning against the lamppost, winded from the beating he'd just given me, he nodded as if he understood. I was sure that in the future he would follow my advice.

Evan Rail earned his B.A. in French and German from UC-Davis. His honors thesis on Baudelaire's prose poetry was aborted due to an illness initially misdiagnosed as mononucleosis, and later misdiagnosed as chronic fatigue syndrome. He currently suffers from insomnia in San Francisco, where he works in the non-profit sector. This traduction of Baudelaire's classic "Assommons les Pauvres!" is his first traduction in print.
E-mail:evan_rail@sfbayguardian.com