Lunch Break #3
The temperature read 103° on the digital billboard across the street. 7th and Barrett, next to the Sunoco, that was Frank’s spot, always. He held a black and white umbrella, slumped-postured in the small circle of relief, as he stared at the shimmers of heat rising from the asphalt. He was surprised by the stuff people just gave away: money, food, and liquor. But today wasn’t one of those days. Only a lousy buck-fifty had landed into his paper cup after nearly five hours of standing. A sign shoe-stringed around his neck read: OLD AND UGLY, BUT MONEY HELPS. He wiped a roll of sweat as it dropped from his black VIETNAM VETERAN hat. Sweat stains decorated the circumference like a crown of thorns. “Get a fuckin’ job, ya bum!” yelled a young man from a passing car. Frank launched a jet of snuff spit into the road, leaned his weight against the purple aluminum cane, and closed his eyes.