In Which I Talk To A Drunk Old Man

I held on to the poll tightly as the streetcar screeched along its tracks, and the bustle of China Town rushed by the windows.

An old man sat directly in front of where I was standing, and in a mumble that released the scent of cheap whiskey, cleared his throat.

“A seat my dear?” he said.

“No thank you,” I said.

I really did not want to sit, nor did I think this old man would do well staggering, trying to maneuver himself between seats and staring eyes.

“I can even get off two stops ahead of mine, so you can sit, if you’re more comfortable with that,” the old man mumbled between his liquor soaked beard.

“No thank you, but I really appreciate the offer,” I said.

I rang the bell just as the streetcar was pulling up to my stop, and the old man smiled.

“Have a good day my dear.”

“Same to you,” I said, looking into his eyes and nodding my head.

I hopped off the streetcar and as I waited at the cross walk, wondered if the old man had a home.

He had blue eyes.

T. DM

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