“I
think
so,”
I
said,
trying
to
sound
like
an
authority,
“I
used
to
be
just
like
you.”
“You
used
to
be
just
like
me?”
Norman
parroted.
“Yeah,”
I
said,
excited
to
have
a
small
amount
of
Norman’s
attention,
“I
was
outdoors
and
filthy
and
had
nobody.”
I
stretched
the
truth.
I
had
never
lived
outdoors.
Nor
had
I
ever
had
the
complete
disregard
for
my
own
hygiene
that
Norman
had.
I
did
get
just
as
drunk
as
Norman,
though—and
I
had
walked
into
traffic
a
time
or
two.
“Just
like
me
.
.
.”
Norman
repeated,
his
voice
sounding
clear
and
articulate.
“Well
that
must
have
been
real
bad
.
.
.
“
I
detected
sarcasm.
I
decided
I
had
better
ease
up
a
bit.
“Well,
I
don’t
mean—”
“Fuck
you!”
Norman
snarled.
Too
late.
“Wait.
I
didn’t
mean—”
Norman
shot
from
his
bench
and
threw
his
grizzled
face
three
inches
from
mine.
I
tensed
and
flinched.
I
was
afraid.
Norman
was
the
very
definition
of
“loose
cannon.”
And
I
had
just
pissed
him
off.
“What
the
fuck
makes
you
think
you
know
who
I
am?”
He
screamed.
I
heaved
as
every
bark
kissed
my
grimacing
face
with
the
reek
of
rotten
teeth.
“You
don’t
fucking
get
it,
do
you?”
Norman’s
red
eyes
bulged
in
unison
with
the
veins
of
his
sun-‐beaten
forehead.
But
his
eyes
looked
different.
They
looked
calm
39