Swirling

Corner Bodega, 10:05 a.m. Walking in from the biting winds that are coming in hard and slashing from the northwest, quickening from the maze of wind tunnels that clog the block. Three English newspapers and two of the Spanish variety on the newsstand. I pick up the New York Times for a moment and scan the headlines, then put it down because it’s $2. Opt for the Daily News, which I consider to be a hair-width more intellectual than the Post. Both are mind-numbing, crass-less pieces of shit. They are enemies to anyone who believes that journalism can inspire. They are jokes without audio. Old man with a shiny aluminum cane holds a 20 oz bottle of Mountain Dew in his right hand. Left hand has been reserved for gesture-making. I stand behind him, close enough to smell his mustiness and see the grease trails in his gray hair. Makes me want to vomit. His voice, barely audible, reminds me of a soft wind as it slides through the tiny, flexible branches of a birch tree. It’s more noise than words. Tall black man next to him, hands in pockets. Wears black fleece pullover with a zipper that goes down halfway. “RJReynolds” embroidered in white on the left breast. Company man. His teeth are perfect: white like new bones and straight as a Nolan Ryan fastball (when he threw strikes). His smile, gleaming now. Old man whispers stories about 5 cent packs of cigarettes to the black man. “Yeah, I bet those where the days,” black man says. Then he whispers again, and it’s is so tired and labored and pathetic that I want to tell him to stop, just stop trying to talk because you can’t do it. The days of you and talking are over, done, finished. Talking left you a long time ago and I do not have any sympathy for you, I think. When he whispers, I swear I see dust spew from his mouth and hover a bit over his cracked lips. Old man talking about non-filter Pall Malls. Used to smoke them, good flavor, easy pull of the smoke. “You still have Pall Mall non-filters, don’t you?” black man asks the Middle Eastern clerk. “Yeah, yeah, of course they do.” Old and black man look up at the ceiling, see hanging ad for Pall Mall Full Flavor and Newport 100s, both for $8.50 a pack. The ad swings back and forth every time the door opens and the wind crashes in. They look at it like someone looks at a photo album. Memories. Conversation waning. Old man lurches a few words out and black man nods his head a bit, looking over old man’s head at the section of single-dose cold and pain pills. “Yep, yep,” he says.