James walked. He walked across the hot cement covered in Tucson dirt. Lizards scurried from beneath the soles of his feet, avoiding death. He was
careful. He was observant to the ubiquitous lizards. Careful not to plaster their scaly bodies against the cement.
He had no destination. Just walking to a place to find food and water. Anything would do. Some water would do. Even soda. Maybe a beer. No, the beer will be better than the soda or the water. It would be something to quench his thirst and stop his brain from reminiscing. He walked. He wasn’t going to stop. His lips curled up into a half grin and a half frown. Emotions didn’t matter. Didn’t even exist to James. He continued to walk. Cars flew past him and men yelled “MUEVETE CABRON!” He didn’t understand one word. Only the anger that filtered in their voices. That he could understand well, but didn’t care. Only beer mattered. A small brick building loomed up in front of him. The words “The Bashful Bandit” in green letters painted on a sign. It was his sanctuary from the cruel desert. The doors creaked as they swung inwards. Clanked when shut behind him. Few people inhabited the chairs and tables. He found a table in the corner away from the drunks. The hours passed and he slowly lost sobriety. Men came and went. He looked to the left and there was a man. A man with a mustache. He drank like a fish. Tried to show off how much he can drink without stopping, but James looked on into the distant wall. Minutes ticked into hours. He looked down to the table and next to him he found a gun. Sitting in front of the man with the mustache.
“What’s the gun for?”
He looked at me as if he had never answered that question before. “It helps me to trust in people!”
James looked at the shiny black metal and felt his head slam down onto the table and then there was no more.
He opened his eyes and found the place empty and the need to go. To continue his walk.
© Copyright 2016 Penelope Garenther. All rights reserved.