Bum

The day after the bludgeoning is quiet. He asks how I'm doing and all I can think of are bruises, everything is dull, aching. I remember how to get up at the end of the fight, please do not send ambulances, but I know I should not have so many TKOs under my belt without someone looking around for concussions. I read Kerouac in Mexico and it soothes me, like his sad eyes hold my hands clear to redemption and maybe I'll make it out alive after all.


"Where'd you learn to do all these funny things?" he laughed. "And you know I say funny but there's sumpthin so durned sensible about 'em. Here I am killin myself drivin this rig back and forth from Ohio to LA and I make more money than you ever had in your whole life as a hobo, but you're the one who enjoys life and not only that but you do it without workin or a whole lot of money. Now who's smart, you or me?"

 Just because you made a deal with the devil doesn't mean you didn't win.