Maurice Wyatt felt great, had a wet towel round his neck keeping him cool. ‘I’m in fine form!’ he boomed; dust shifted: ‘Ninety seven today, hooray.’
He should have died in his twenties; counted three occasions. ‘My very own demise!’ he says; but nothing; no death, no harm to anyone, nothing. Silly man checked the figures, for a time believed his life was a mistake.
Misty recollections of jails and maelstroms and straining every nerve to overcome, bark in his ear as if from an unknown yard, inside his head. These barks, like auditory scars, are souvenirs of times and places, events he can’t fully recall. Now, being so old, he supposes they’re a recent thing; further evidence of something he has thus far managed to hide; the onset of dementia. But these mental explosions have in fact been occurring for decades, in various types of lines- lunch bar lines, movie lines, stadium lines, shopping market lines, and always in the open street.
Unseen lights flashing behind his eyes, Maurice shuffled forward in the queue and slammed into the man in front of himself.
"Dammit, granpa," the man cursed and glared. "Why don't you watch what you're doin'?"
"I'm real sorry, son," the old-timer mumbled as he stepped out of the ice-cream line and shuffled away.
Maurice flicked through the guy's wallet. Sixty bucks. Not bad. He dropped it in his Walmart bag with the others. "Ninety eight today!" he boomed. "I still got it!"
Maurice "Fingers" Wyatt scanned the street for another line.
Opening: Morgan Barrie.....Continuation: Anon.