His right shoe didn’t fit…right.
Joe Leahy had been in such a hurry to get out of the damn shoe store, he didn’t really try them on.
Put ‘em on, but didn’t try, didn’t walk, go through the flexing motions he remembered his older sisters encouraging him to do when he was younger.
A woman at the shoe store asked him if he needed anything, he shrugged her off. No.
No he didn’t need anything.
Not from her.
He put the smoke in his mouth, it felt moist.
The rain was puddling now, when the bus pulled up to the stop it would probably soak him and the old dude who was lounging in the corner, head up against the glass.
Smokes were in a pack, in a pocket, in a shirt under a coat.
How the fuck did they get moist?
Joe would light his smoke and the bus would come.
He knew it.
He wanted the smoke worse than he wanted to get on the bus.
He could walk but the right shoe sucked.
If the left one had sucked too, in the store, would I have noticed?
Maybe.
The old man stirred.
Was he sleeping?
Joe grabbed the pack of smokes from his pocket.
The one in the hand was the first one from it.
Did I open the pack earlier and not take one out?
Are all my fucking smokes moist because I opened the pack too soon?
Grunting, even though the motion didn’t merit a grunt, Joe tried to put the single smoke back in the pack.
The other smokes had slid, he was struggling to slip the smoke back in.
He felt an eye.
The old lounging guy was watching him with one eye.
He had on a green wool sweater that looked like it didn’t have buttons but was torn down the middle. Even in the shadows Joe could see that white letters on the old guy’s black t-shirt said World’s Gr
The green sweater covered the rest.
Joe sneered. World’s Greatest what?
Grandpa? Bowler? Loser almost asleep at Lahser and 6 Mile?
He tried again to jam the cigarette back in the pack.
The man in the corner pulled two sticks from his pocket.
Smaller than drumsticks. Sticks. Off a tree.
He rubbed them together, the bark worn away in places, pale wood showing.
“Better to quit when you got a full pack,” the old man said.
Joe slid back on the bench.
“I don’t fucking wanna quit. Who the fuck said they wanna quit?”
The old guy shrugged.
Lightning flashed in the distance and reflected off the puddles on the street.
Joe saw light echoes as the old man said “You should wanna. And you should do it when you have a full pack. Give ‘em away.”
“You want a smoke, Methuselah? If you want a smoke, I’ll give you one of these soggy fucking smokes. But don’t lecture me about quitting.”
Joe Leahy pulled a cigarette from the pack and offered the two smokes to the old guy.
The guy shook his head, smiling.
“No, I don’t want a smoke. I quit. Whenever I get the urge I rub these two sticks together.”
The guy winked or blinked with the one open eye at Joe. The other eye looked like it didn’t open
“These used to be oak trunks.”
Joe knew the guy was trying to be funny and he hated it. Shivered from hating it. Wanted to punch the guy.
The guy stood.
Can he feel that I wanna hit him?
Does he want to fight me?
He’s old, but I’ll fuckin hit him. I don’t care.
The old guy shoved his sticks in his pocket and stepped forward.
Joe stood, made a fist.
He wanted the old guy to swing first.
Swing first, old fucker.
The man looked at Joe, up and down.
He reached into his coat.
Joe froze.
Ready to swing at the man’s face, at his one open eye, if a gun came out he’d have to chop down, grab, pull the gun from the codger.
“Take my sticks,” the man said. “They help.”
Joe Leahy didn’t move. He didn’t understand.
Standing at full height, the ripped green sweater hanging open, the man’s t-shirt read World’s Gr
There were tattered remnants of other white iron-on letters, but Joe couldn’t make out what they once said.
The man held two sticks out.
Joe took them, awkwardly, having already forgotten what the man said the sticks were for.
He read the shirt again.
World’s Gr
Stupid.
It doesn’t even say anything anymore. What kind of asshole wears-
Water splattered from the back of the man’s knees and he gave a quick yelp of surprise.
Joe stepped back, too late, the cold rainwater splashing all over his lower legs.
The man’s eye didn’t open when the splash from the bus tire hit him.
Joe dropped the sticks and looked down.
“Oh shit,” the old man said. “That sucks. Those shoes look brand new.”
The man shook his head sadly, turned, stepped over the puddle and boarded the bus.
***
This is Roulette Weal story #1260
My hopes for this endeavor, in which I’ve been publishing quality short fiction every single day— have fallen well short of some very reasonable goals.
If you like what I do and cannot afford a full subscription of 90 bucks a year, I’ll take any patronage via Venmo (James-Graham-80).
If you can afford a subscription, which includes the entire archive of stories:
Your writing is so vivid, Jimmy.
Nice work