Life, actually…

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THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSEEN

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A puff of blue smoke appears from around the corner of a village structure.

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Like Native American signals of yore, this puff announces an upcoming event. An instant later, Bobby J. appears mid another cloud of smoke.

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He heads my way, his exhalations as powerful as his inhalations.

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Bobby J. is this moment’s Wyatt Earp. He struts along, cigarette in one hand, unholstered phone in the other, yelling into  his palm and sucking in as much of his portable stormcloud as possible.

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Bobby J. is primed for action, his close-shaved head and confused tuft of beard framed by a black tee-shirt emblazened with a Harley slogan. He lopes along, enclosed in an emotional tirade aimed at the phone, his angered breathing fiercely sucking in and spewing words and smoke.

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I stand in Bobby J.’s way on the cracked sidewalk, so I quickly move aside, pretending to be oblivious to his drama. I sweep leaves and butts toward the beckoning gutter.

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He chugs past me and turns the next corner. Burnt tobacco and echoed invectives dissipate.

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Did I want to witness this? Doesn’t matter, does it? Things happen and fade away.

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Bobby J. is his own story imprisoned within his own fate. But he is suddenly immortalized this instant, a living image embedded in this story.

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Will future readers recognize him by my description? Will his cameo appearance in front of the bookstore roll with life’s credits at the end of the show?

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Will Bobby J. ever realize how unique and special he is? Will those who love or hate him find anything remarkable about him? Will there ever be an accounting of the good he has done, the bad he has done, the kindnesses he dispensed, the bumbling-along image he projects?

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This is not for me to know. Whatever will be will be.

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All I know is that I did what any artist might do. I paid attention to him when there was no-one else around to feel his moment.

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There you have it. I guess this page is his gift unopened

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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