September

Issue 36

    I watched the old man take a deep drag of the cigarette I'd given him and let the smoke roll out over his lip, savoring it.  The tapping of his heel against the chair leg and rigid body posture belied his calm demeanor.

    "I don't have a story," he mumbled.

    I stared intently at him, but he wouldn't meet my eyes.  "Everyone has a story, Moncredo," I countered.  I could play this game better than he.  "Tell me how you got here."

    "It's boring. You've heard it before."

    "Probably."  I watched as he finished the cigarette and flicked the butt absently into the void.  I wondered if he would be content just to sit and smoke a cigarette upon occasion, never giving me his story.  This must have been the fifth or sixth time he'd waited through the queue, but not really having the patience to wrestle with him today I tried another tact. Hopefully it would at least get him talking and then maybe a story would come out.

    "Does your leg bother you much?"  

    He looked at me now.  Sizing me up, surely wondering how I knew about his leg.  

    "No, not much."  The scar was very subtle, but I had seen it when he sat down, running from mid-thigh almost to his crotch.  "Mainly when it's cold."  

    "I'm not much for cold weather myself," I encouraged him.  "It makes me cranky."

    He didn't reply.

    I surreptitiously glanced at the waiting room door.  The queue had grown to fifteen.  I needed to either get his story or move him along.

    "Got any more cigarettes?" he said.

    "Not for you today."

    "Why not?"  He was getting surly now.

    "Because you're not good company.  I want to talk, but you're as quiet as the proverbial church mouse.  Tell me a good story and I'll give you the whole pack of smokes."  He crossed his arms petulantly and leaned back in the chair.  I was just about to send him out when he dramatically cleared his throat.