Forties

I do not trust a man, forty-something, who is dressed like a high school slacker. Short sleeve plaid button-up, baggy jeans and old sneakers, hat just slightly off, full backpack hanging off his slumped shoulders by his ass. A vacant look, like he's missing his skateboard, or his bag of meth. He looks high, drunk, and is probably both. He calls over to his "babe," rifles through her makeup bag and takes out two cigarettes. She has a hooded sweatshirt on and it's eighty-five degrees, hair pulled too tightly back into a ponytail that's either is wet or shellacked with hairspray. And it has that curl to it, that terrible cheap curl. They light their cigarettes, and stop the ice cream man on the sidewalk, they get two Tweety Bird ice cream treats and just bite them, staring ahead, smoking.

Their friend meets them, the winner with the neck tattoo. He has a rolling suitcase, a Disturbed backpack resting on top, covered with some smiling skull face made out of fire, red and black. They're not happy to see each other, they're not anything, they're just there. The three of them smoke and the two of them bite their ice cream and they have all these bags.

They leave the corner and walk down the street to the liquor store. When they come out they're each holding a bag, containing what I assume is six-packs of cheap beer, forty-ounce malt liquor bottles, probably both. I know what they buy and what they'll do next. I know what tomorrow and the rest of their lives will be like. I know their diets and their children's names, the cars they drive and the places they don't drive to. I know what color their carpets are.

"Babe" opens her little pink bag again and takes out cigarettes. "Disturbed" takes out his own pack. "Slacker" spots someone and starts half-running, dragging, stupid, down the sidewalk. He's trying to get their attention.