There’s a man outside.
He’s lounging next to a cardboard sign.
The caked words scrawled on the sign look like they were pressed with a hooker’s lipstick.
I can barely read the words.
It is beginning to rain.
The man’s beard is white. Drops of rain are falling in it. He doesn’t seem bothered.
His hands are splayed to the heavens, beckoning to some unseen, unresponsive gods.
His lips are carved into a wild smile. His eyes are open like he’s just seen a ghost or had a heart attack.
The man is still outside. His eyes are black with sorrow. He does not care about the rain.
When I talk to the old man, he does not bother answering me.
The sky is growing dark. The heavens are opening up with a torrential downpour.
The old man does not move, nor does he complain. I ask him why he is still here.
He doesn’t tell me.
I reach into his pockets and find four dollars and thirty two cents, half a bottle of Jack, a sealed chocolate bar that has melted, and an ID. This man is 68 years old according to his drivers license. He does not mind and continues to smile at me.
I shout at the man to get up. He needs to get off my property, but he does not respond. He does not blink, nor does he breathe.
I put his money back into his inner jacket pocket, wiping his blood from where I stabbed him six times as I do so.
“Will work for food,” I read his crappy sign to myself. What a joke. How can he work when he is too lazy to even stand up and get off my property?
The creepy old man does not leave. I will keep you updated…