Outside 7-Eleven, a 50ish man with gray hair, dirty white t-shirt, stained cargo shorts, obviously drunk.
Old Drunk Man: Hey! Hey! Can I buy a cigarette?
Me: (reading a collection of Mary Oliver poetry, smoking) No, sorry man.
ODM: (shocked) WHAT!? I said buy!
Me: No, sorry man.
ODM: (shows me hand full of pennies and dimes) I have, like, a dollar!
Me: No, sorry.
ODM: (whining) Come on PLEASE!
Me: No.
Guy walks into 7-Eleven presumably to buy cigarettes. Upon leaving he walks within inches of me reading my book mumbling under his breath trying to get me to look up. I don't look up. It's clear he is on the fence about starting some kind of verbal or physical altercation. Before rounding the corner he stops and stands looking at me. I don't look up from a poem about how wonderful it would be to live alone in the mountains.
ODM: (like an angry cat) HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
I don't look up. After a minute or two he walks away. I read a poem about the melodious and tranquil chirping of morning birds.
No comments:
Post a Comment