I hate our bus stop. It’s right in front of his run down house. Everyday he sits on his porch, in a rocking chair that can hardly bare his enormous size. He never deviates from the routine, even on days like today where it drizzles like air is sweating. He always has a bottle in hand, his beady eyes glittering underneath the worn cowboy hat that doesn’t even fit his head any more than he fits his chair. I can tell he’s happy, he’s practically twitching from it. He talks like I want to hear the cynic wisdom of his wasted older years. His inner thoughts reined. “Silence gives contempt.” “Honor has no profit.” “ The last laugh is best.” “Drink makes the heart grow fonder” “for every drop of rain that falls, a flower grows. And a foundation leaks and a ball game gets rained out and a car rusts…” “This land is your land. This land is my land. So stay on your land.” He must have thought it up to him to educate us what our schools would not. Telling us ‘how it really works’. We had to listen or he’d yell louder. We learned not to yell back at him. It only seemed make him happier. Some days it couldn’t be helped. I’d curse his sense of civic duty even if it lasted only a few minutes. It was heaven when the bus pulled up. A friend of mine, unable to control himself, shouted out the secret nickname we all called him with laughs on the ride to school. Fat Jolly Man seemed to even like that.
Created: Jul 30, 2010Document Media