“What the fuck is wrong with that guy? He gives me the creeps,” Rebecca said as she stepped out onto the wet sidewalk to smoke. An unshaven man with long, straggly hair sat on the damp bench that faced the entrance to the bar. He wore wrinkled clothing and an inscrutable expression. His pale blue eyes seemed to stare right through the building in front of him.
“I don’t know,” replied Vivian. “but he’s always fucking there, taking up the best place to smoke. At least he isn’t one of those that smell like three-day-old piss, but he freaks me out too. He looks like he might do something.”
The two women stood under the awning of the neighboring building and exhaled catty stories about their mutual acquaintances along with their cigarette smoke. On the way back in, they gave the man side eye and turned up one corner of their lips in expressions that spoke a thousand unkind words. After another round of Jameson and Jaegermeister, they decided to enlist the help of the bartender in improving the aesthetics of their next cigarette break.
“Hey, Rick,” Rebecca said. “Can you do anything about that homeless guy out front? We want to go outside and have another smoke, but he’s just sitting there staring. Can you chase him off?”
Rick squinched his eyes in confusion, then cocked his pony-tailed head to the side and said “Do you mean Bill?”
“We didn’t, like, talk to him,” Rebecca replied.
“Eww,” Vivian interjected, “Is he, like, one of those pet homeless people that hang out at certain bars where you, like, have him sweep up and take out the trash and stuff for free drinks? That’s gross.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca said. “He’s probably driving customers away. I’m sure the owner would appreciate it if you got rid of him.” Rick started laughing uproariously then shook his head as his expression saddened.
“Bill is the owner of the bar. He bought it after he got back from Operation Desert Storm when he retired from the military. Brought in some of his commanding officers as investors, bought when the market was low and started making a handsome profit. He was able to buy out his investors after four years. He’s a self-made millionaire.”
“Come on, you’ve got to be joking,” Rebecca said. “That weirdo is a millionaire? Why doesn’t he buy some decent clothes or get a haircut?”
“What happened?” Vivian asked, “Did he spend his money on a shitload of cocaine and blow out a blood vessel in his head?”
“No.” Rick sighed heavily. “When his son turned eighteen, he bought him a Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle for Christmas. A week later, the kid hit a wet patch on the road and slid into oncoming traffic. They had to have a closed-casket funeral. Bill’s been like that ever since.” He poured the last few drops from the bottle into their shot glasses. “Empty.”
Literature in Small Doses 