The Wood-Fired Pizza Place Is Sorely Out of Business

The one just across in the tan leather jacket doing the morning paper crossword sits in a nonchalant manner. I'm not sure if he recognizes me. I do however recall his existence. One late afternoon last summer he talked my ear off amidst a swirl of distillery fumes emanating from his oral cavity. In the present time one would not even guess of such capability. His face reminds me of Henry David Thoreau, except with shorter hair. He might be approaching the "civil disobedience" bit if he continues hitting the happy hour hard, but then the opposite effect would be realized for the remainder of the "philosophy." Nonetheless as I observe him, he appears at a relative peace in the world regardless of the crossword from the Seattle Times that seems to stump him to just two completed words. Well, now only three.
In another scene a long line of red peels out through the bus's front window. The darkness of the morning accentuates the dreary mobile lights. They are passed subsequently out the right-side window much like the silhouetted landscape, except at a slower pace. The line disappears momentarily as the bus stops above the freeway. The recalled man in the tan jacket finally gives up on the crossword. He folds the paper up and inserts back in his bag. Once the pack is zippered he slides himself to the window seat from the aisle to make room for would-be passengers embarking. Only two other in fact do with no takers yet. It matters not to him though. With deliberate intention, he fells his head forward and closes his eyes to snooze until a quick thought overtakes his senses. He then begins to root around at the left-inside pocket of his tan leather jacket. The crackling sounds of thick cellophane interrupts the drone of the diesel as he pops a mint in his mouth. With vigor, he pushes it around his mouth as if were a washing machine on the spin cycle. This activity keeps his eyes open at intervals when they keep fluttering closed. Arms crossed, legs bent at a right angle he moves nowhere else but for the before-mentioned.
He disembarks at the transit station. He walks with a briskness in the freezing morning, first north then west. Before disappearing behind another parked bus he waves at a short squat woman in a red p-coat. A brief smile can be discerned flashing on the face before melding into the per diem accompaniment of proletariat symphony. It is an uncanny duality to be sure.