Sunday, January 18, 2009

The Winner

This guy is an old-timer; I’ve seen him out there for years and years, and it looks to me as if he’d been out there quite some time before he ever came to my attention.  His skin is a congested, florid pink - weathered, wrinkled and puffy.  It appears to be so uncomfortable that I actually find it difficult to look at him.  He’s clearly shrunk down some but probably never reached five-foot-six, and his frame is further diminished by his underslung posture and his heavy drooping paunch.  He reeks of rot and cheap vodka and wears worn-out work clothes that are frequently filthy to the verge of being primarily filth, thick with grime, noisome and foul.  And, tragically, they suit him. 

He rides my bus home every so often, boarding where I typically do at Fremont Street.  There’s a whole slew of lines that stop there; sometimes he takes one of the others, and sometimes he picks my 38.  One evening some while ago we rode home on the same bus together.  I don’t recall much of what he wore; as I mentioned, I actually try not to get too much of an eyeful of him.  But he was talking, too, and I did glance over to see him leaning forward to pick at his feet, shod in erstwhile footwear that appeared to be actively decaying into his flesh.  In a worn-out whispered growl he said:

“I’ve never in my life worn socks with so many holes in ‘em.  Never in my life.  You get a hole in the heel, you just turn’em over.  Holey, holey socks.  I’d challenge any of ya to a sock contest, a holey sock contest.  A holes-in-your-socks contest.  And I’d win.”