Sunday

Rico

It isn't until his third trip up to the counter, to add more cream to his empty coffee cup, that I notice his shoeless feet. Shoeless Joe Jackson, in the house.

He takes tiny sips of half and half from the coffee houses' ceramic mug, nourishing his clogged arteries. It's the perfect distraction I need to assist in my procrastinating. No matter what my imagination is giving me today, I have yet to put pen to paper. We're at a standstill me and my imagination, and Shoeless Joe Jackson is just another reminder of that; here he is, in front of me, and I can't find the words to share.

'Portly hispanic man wearing his best tube socks waits in corner coffee shop for lightning to strike'. That's the headline bubble I imagine over his head. He stands up a few times to stretch and look out the great window that allows us coffee shop-dwellers a glimpse of the outside world. The sound of traveling thunder drowns out Thelonius Monk, and I see Mr. Shoeless eyes' grow large at the first streak of lightning.

"Tut-tut, it looks like rain", I hear the sounds come out of my mouth
Shoeless turns and looks at me.
"That won't do me no good", he glares.
"Rico, you're mother called and she needs you to pick up her dry cleaning", the sound of Marie calling out from behind the counter.
"Dammit", my portly friend responds. He walks over to my tiny table, sets down his mug and gives me a wink,
"Take care of that for me, sweetie?" I nod my head 'yes' or 'sure' and compulsively wink back.

He heads towards the door, where my eyes finally rest on a pair of green men's galoshes. He slips his socked feet into the boots. His final departing cry,
"'Til the rains come tumbling down!"

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