Like He Owns The Place
He walks into the bus station all dirty jeans and scuffed Red Wings, retractable key fob on his belt and $35.00 an hour confidence in his step. Graying hair and creeping up on 60. He walks like he’s a half-sack into a Friday night – sizing up everything and everybody, ready to swing if necessary. It’s a confidence that men half his age wish they had. The skittish skateboarders get out of his way as do the perfumed heels. Decades old denim hangs from his shoulders and I can make out a faint bleached ring on the upper right pocket – The Chaw Pocket. He chews dangerously. His rough claws echo the mottled concrete pillar that he is now leaning against. Stares off into no particular direction. It’s a world-weary three hundred yard stare that takes decades to perfect. Shuts his eyes for a moment, seemingly in deep thought. Heads outside to spit his wad. Chunk of brown sails from his mouth to the already sullied concrete platform. In one flowing motion he pulls out a pack of DuMaurier and sparks one up. Spits. Takes a drag. Adjusts his soiled cap. With a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he stares out into the southern morning sky with a grizzled grin. Looks at his watch. It’s Tuesday, 7:36 am. He’ll live forever.