RICK, OR ROGER, OR BOB the amputee is sitting in his duct-taped wheelchair at a table on Thursday afternoon, talking about the weather to Roy or Vern or Dennis, a lonely elder who frequently sits in the corner and stares out the window. My mind decides they’re on their eighth cup of coffee grain water, sipping between words, gazes out the window, tapping the empty cup against the table, chud chud chud—like time, too, is drying up.
Ike, age 73, comes in in a neon vest. He just got off a day’s worth of construction, looking for a doughnut, or a can of nuts that he didn’t need, just wanted to stop and say hello again.
And Dennis—the real Dennis, with both legs, the Dennis that comes in every day, three times a day to read the employee paper and talk about “Senator Shithead,” to circle the donuts, then go eat dinner with Mom—he shows up.
The conniving Vietnam War Veteran (his hat says so every day) that looks like a Larry but acts like a Clyde, the grocery-store-free-donut-abusing-maven (then again, he fought a war), raccoon eyes, leather jacket, waddles in, inspects, walks out. Routine.
Dorothy’s not here today—doesn’t come around much but Sunday mornings since the accident, in the store, in her pants.
Ike, age 73, swings by again after a shower and pacemaker checkup.
When it starts to flow, when limbs and wives and bladder control are lost and a retirement is reckoned with, counted, leaned on, hearts stimulated by artifices, as mornings grow longer, days shorter—you begin to amble within the scene. It’s lax. Rick or Roger and Vern, Dennis, Clyde and Ike—they lean back and stare out the window together, to South University where the college kids fly by and large women—always large women—wait for the next bus on another bygone day, chud, chud, chud, as time dries up.
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