Fred’s ’Port’          2

I'd almost forget he was there. He'd look up at me with a delighted presence whenever I knocked on his patio door. I could sit with him from the moment the scent of eggs and bacon teased our noses from an open window in the next building, till the crickets hiding in the surrounding darkened bushes began harmonizing. I wouldn't be bored.

       "Here! Have a port, Randy. My last one." Never did mind donating 1 out of 20 as long as I smoked it down to the filter line. I remember how he cringed the first time I extinguished a cigarette of his after smoking only half. I almost felt guilty - like I owed him $0.25. His gray eyes coached me; followed the cigarette between my fingertips from my lips to his ashtray as he listened to the birds sending sing-songs from tree to tree. It seemed important to him like a mother making sure her child cleans their diner plate. I didn't have that constant urge to smoke, but it seemed as though it was all he had. No significant possessions to flaunt, no photo albums to share, no family and no friends ever visited Fred. I don't recall ever seeing the mailman placing mail in Fred's box… and only once had I ever observed him bringing in groceries. His dentures remained a golden brown as if he probably chewed tobacco - the only thing he had a craving to chew on. Yet I never felt sorry for him because he smiled and chuckled sometimes for, what seemed to be, nothing. He was just good old Fred; Frederick Moss.   

 

Friday, December 1st:

       My worn dark blue sweater hung over the back of my swivel chair as I gazed down at my wrinkled, pale fingertips while

 

                                                                             

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