Last Sunday At Fry's
Outside Fry's Supermarket sitting on the loafers' bench. Rich tells me the story of the man who died in his arms just a few minutes before I arrived. The EMT truck and the Fire Truck were just leaving when I walked up to the bench. I remember feeling so irritated because the EMT siren was so loud (five feet away from me) that it hurt my ears. It was in the parking lot, Rich told me, that he came across the old guy lying on the asphalt. Foam was coming out of his mouth. He had no heartbeat and was not breathing. Rich said he tried to resuscitate the guy but couldn't. "And to make matters worse," Rich said, "I knew the guy. He was a friend of my mom's"
Rich seemed to be pretty shaken up so I didn't linger as I usually do, but walked away as he began to again relate the story to a Fry's cashier who had just arrived for her smoke break. I went inside the store and got my lottery tickets and talked to the friendly young Customer Service girl as I always do. Then I shopped for a while and finally bought some frozen fish, a box of saltines, and a jar of peanut butter.
When I came out of the store, Rich was again relating his story to yet another recent arrival so I waved and walked on by, beginning my mile long walk back to the apartment.
And it had begun to rain.
I decided to just walk on anyway instead of catching the Sun Tran city bus. A little rain never hurt anyone. And fifty-cents saved is fifty-cents saved. But a nice hot shower sure felt good when I got home. We old people, I have been told, are susceptible to pneumonia. Especially old fools who walk a mile in the rain in late December.
LAUGH! And The World Says, "What's So Funny?"
Here is a short movie clip I thought was amusing:
Today's New Word
having well-shaped buttocks
So many writer wannabes complain that they are unpublished, and when they are asked, "Have you written a full length novel? Edited it? Revised it? Polished it until you are satisfied that it is the best you can make it, then sent it with payment to a competent professional editor? Again revised it incorporating the editor's suggestions? Polished it again? Sent it to every publisher and every agent you can find addresses for? While doing all that, have you written another novel? A better novel?"
"What? No?" And yet, still they whine about being unpublished.
“Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!”