Fear is a Hitman waiting in an alleyway for the right moment to break my legs. He’s got the torso of a grizzly bear, the face of a meteor, the strength of the Hoover Dam and the heart of a frozen avocado. Maybe I owe him, maybe I don’t. But he’s mean enough that I replay the last 5 years in my head looking for that tarnished black moment that I ever crossed his path. He sits at the corner while I eat in the local diner. I’m at my usual window seat. I order the eggs and toast. He’s leaning on the wall.
His hands, which could be mistaken for boulders, are tucked snuggly into velvet pants pockets that are too small for wrecking balls that size. His legs are a paradox. One foot is firmly established on the pavement like a bulldozer with the foot crank down for the night. The other tree trunk root with a shoe is doing an awkward kind of pirouette; toes pointing down, as if having both feet flat on Earth would bring on the sort of gravity that holds monuments motionless on city square corners. He’s leaning against a wall, and daring it to hold him up. The bricks that make it couldn’t fold and collapse into a heap even if they wanted to. The side of that building is scared of him too.
He watches me. I don’t look up. I don’t want to think about it. I’m just going to finish eating, pay for my meal, and walk away knowing full well I’ll be followed for the rest of the day. I wonder if walking up the stairs to the 3rd floor of the Days Inn and doing a junior high caliber hurdle over the hand crafted maple railing will fracture, rupture and corkscrew my legs enough for the Hitman to consider it fitting retribution. At least then I would be in control.
Filed under: Whatever , Control, Eggs and Toast, Fear, Hitman, Short
