I
saw
Norman
walk
into
the
street.
Like
it
was
the
most
natural,
logical
action;
right
in
front
of
an
oncoming
sedan.
I
belted
a
nonsensical
grunt
of
protest.
Norman
didn’t
hear
me,
or
he
didn’t
care.
My
face
puckered
and
I
expected
to
soon
be
covered
with
more
of
Norman’s
insides,
but
the
sedan
swerved.
An
erect
middle
finger
emerged
from
the
driver’s
side
window
of
the
sedan,
just
before
an
AM/PM
Big
Gulp
cup
flew
from
the
passenger
side
window,
barely
missing
my
head.
Norman
continued
across
the
street.
I
ran
after
him.
He
stood
in
front
of
a
row
of
benches
adjacent
to
the
Piggly
Wiggly
and
began
walking
in
circles
like
a
tired
hound.
He
plopped
down
on
a
bench
and
took
a
Lucky
from
the
pack
I
gave
him.
“A
burger,
with
the
works,”
he
barked
without
looking
up.
I
sat
on
the
next
bench,
took
a
Lucky
from
the
pack
in
my
shirt-‐pocket,
lit
it,
and
breathed
the
satisfying
cloud
into
my
lungs.
Norman
mumbled.
I
had
decided
to
ignore
the
traffic
incident.
“What’s
your
name,
old-‐timer?”
I
asked,
exhaling
a
grey
cloud.
“Norman.”
“Nice
to
meet
you,
Norman.”
“Yeah?”
He
spat
a
thick,
pea-‐green
wad
of
phlegm
on
the
bench.
“You
ever
thought
about
quitting
drinking?”
I
asked,
trying
to
stick
to
the
plan.
“Why
would
I
do
that?”
“It
looks
like
it’s
eating
your
lunch.”
“Is
that
right?”
38